


A Symphony in Scarlet

by katerinak



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Music, Classical Music, M/M, Musicians
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-18
Updated: 2015-08-13
Packaged: 2018-04-10 00:52:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 21,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4370948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katerinak/pseuds/katerinak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is the most promising - and insufferable - violinist of his generation, but doomed to exist in loneliness. John Watson quite literally watched his career crash and burn. Music haunts them, but it may just unite them purely by chance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, internet. While I dread public exposure, I have quite bravely decided to write and post my first fic. Yes, this is my very first work and English is not my first language. I also don't have a beta, so any mistakes you may find are completely my responsibility. Having said that, if you have any constructive criticism, I'm all ears, but please be kind. I'm sorry if this is awful.
> 
> Safe to say, I don't own any of these characters. They belong to ACD and the BBC.  
> I have been a Sherlock Holmes fan ever since I learned how to read, so I'm trying to infuse details from the books into the story.

(Excerpt from Sherlock Holmes’ interview in _Allegretto_ magazine.)

 **How did you start your violin training?**  
I was very young, around 4 years old. My mother was very insistent that I should learn how to play an instrument of my choosing. My brother already played the piano, even if not very brilliantly, so I chose the violin.

 **Did you have an immediate connection with the instrument?**  
No, not at all. I was a child. I wanted to be a pirate, not sit for hours practicing scales.

 **When did that change?**  
When I noticed I wasn’t completely useless at it.

 **It impacted you greatly, became your chosen profession.**  
Yes and no. I became somewhat obsessed with it, I admit, but I never regarded it as a profession. It was something I enjoyed doing and that I excelled at, so I wasn’t going to deny being paid to do it. 

**You started participating in major international competitions at an extremely early stage in your career. The prizes didn’t take long to start falling on your hands. How did that feel at the time?**  
It was validating, of course. I’m not above feeling accomplished after seeing my work praised by my peers, but I was young, reckless. Irresponsible. I didn’t take it very seriously, to be honest.

 **And yet at 25 years old, you’re one of the most profitable and controversial violinists alive. What do you attribute your success to?**  
Two very simple things: hard work and the predictability of the human species.

 **That’s a somewhat simplistic view of the music business, is it not?**  
Yes. People are in general exceedingly simple. You ask why I’m profitable. That is easy to answer: I know precisely what pieces to choose for maximum impact with each audience. The fact that I am controversial is inconsequential to me. If it attracts people to listen to good music, all the better.

\---

(Transcript from the radio show _Valse Sentimentale_ with Julia Stoner and Bob Carruthers.)

Bob: And that was the Three Continents Ensemble playing the Brahms Trio in A minor opus 114. John Watson on the clarinet, Bill Murray on the cello and James Sholto on the piano.

Julia: Oh, that’s an oldie.

Bob: And goodie. It’s amazing how Brahms could pen down such subtly magnificent music at the end of his life. The complexity is so well hidden it almost sounds simplistic.

Julia: I agree. It’s curious how this is also one of the last performances the Three Continents Ensemble would ever do.

Bob: So tragic, isn’t it? Young talent, wasted like that.

Julia: And the way that it happened!

Bob: For our listeners at home who are confused or don’t know what we’re talking about, this group of young musicians split after the clarinetist, John Watson, was severely injured in a car crash six years ago.

Julia: I still remember it like it was yesterday. He was my age at the time, 24 years old. I’d even met him once, and he was so ridiculously nice.

Bob: The thing that touched me the most was a young man having his life turned upside down like that. There’s no easy bouncing back from it.

Julia: Yeah. God, this conversation is giving me goosebumps.

Bob: Onto happier themes, then! Let’s celebrate the fact Sir Simon Rattle is returning to the UK in 2017 to lead the London Symphony Orchestra with one of my favourite Mahler Symphonies…

\---

The slow but steady patter of the rain on the windows was soothing, seductive even, as if diluting with thoughts and ideas until there was nothing but its rhythm drumming in sync with breathing and heartbeat and brain wavelength. The air was thick, complete with a tang of cheap cigarettes and expensive rosin, dancing around dim silver light. A long finger traced an ascending melody line on aged, yellowed paper, until it exploded and burned in an exuberant G. _Vibrato_ , scrawled below in uneven capitals. _Crescendo_. The G breaks, and then the notes are so gentle they’re barely there. Whispers of a forgotten theme, lost in the rage of music that embraced it. One hand suspended in the air, pressing invisible strings, bent elbow, shoulder meeting pale neck…

“Sherlock. You’re on the floor again.”

Stormy verdigris eyes snapped open and clouded with fury. 

“Oh God! Do you even comprehend the mechanics of knocking?!”

“I knocked. You ignored me.”

“Yes, I do that.”

Greg Lestrade rolled his eyes and closed the door behind him, taking a minute to place three mugs of cold tea in various stages of consumption on the kitchen sink before taking their place on the couch, right beside a pile of CD cases. 

“And we really do need to talk. Your schedule for the next month is a right mess. You won’t answer my emails, my calls or even my texts.”

The man didn’t move from his position, sitting cross-legged on the Persian carpet, surrounded by a circle of sheet music, blue silk dressing gown falling from his left shoulder.

“Sort it out, Lestrade. It’s your job.”

“My job doesn’t include stalking your flat just to make sure you haven’t dropped dead and I still do that. So the least I can ask from you is a little interest when I’m trying to juggle the many components that make up your bloody career!”

The silence that followed was supposed to be heavy, but it just felt resigned in the power of the familiarity of the situation. Sherlock Holmes breathed out a low, infinite sigh and unfolded himself from his position, standing in the middle of the circle like a man summoning a demon.

“What do you want then?”, he asked, harshly pulling the falling dressing gown back over his shoulder.

Greg smiled and produced a small notebook and a pen from his coat pocket.

“Alright. So, Mrs. Maberley has called to confirm your recital at Blackheath Halls. She’d also like an outline of your chosen programe. I told her I’d run it by you.”

“Bach’s Partita number 3. Grieg’s first Sonata. And then Paganini’s Caprice number 1, that’s always a crowd pleaser.” Sherlock shot out in a bored tone, dropping his body on one of the armchairs framing the fireplace.

The older man looked up from his writing, nodding along.

“Wonderful, I’ll tell her. Also, the blokes from Paris have been emailing me like mad control freaks, trying to know if you’re still interested in giving that Masterclass.”

“Oh, how fantastic, trying to teach self-important idiots. I can’t wait.”

“What, like you?”

Sherlock lolled his head to the side facing his agent and sent him a withering half-lidded look. 

“Tell them I’ll do it.”, he answered, after a beat.

Greg’s mouth twitched, but he said nothing. Years of being more Sherlock Holmes’ handler than agent had taught him many things, and accepting his victories gracefully was one of them.

“I think we’re just about done, then. Was it that hard?”

Sherlock didn’t respond. His eyes were closed, hands gripping the edges of the silk dressing gown and tugging it snugly around his torso. He looked much younger like this, lost in the inner most intimate workings of his great and complex mind. This kind of genius was stimulating to be around, inspiring even, but looking at Sherlock like this, young and vulnerable in the privacy of his Baker Street flat, his home, rekindled an ancient deep worry inside Greg. It had to be lonely. Incredibly so. Few family members, not a lot of friends to speak of. He had Greg, of course. And Mrs. Hudson and Molly. _God, quantifying it only makes it more depressing_ , the agent thought. He breathed out heavily from his nose and stood as he tucked the notebook back into the folds of his coat from where it had emerged in the first place. 

“Sherlock?”

Silence.

“Well, I know you’re not listening to me, but take care of yourself. Please. I’ll stop by soon.”

Greg ran a hand through his hair and looked at himself in the mirror perched above the fireplace. Yes, he was definitely starting to go grey at the temples. At 35. Fucking genetics. Quietly, he made his way out of the flat and down the stairs. The sound of his steps on the wood diminished and softened like fading percussion until it disappeared. The soft thump of the front door shutting.

Sherlock slowly opened his eyes and stared at the wallpaper for a moment, before rising from the armchair. He walked through the kitchen and down the hallway into his bedroom, closed the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alegretto magazine and Valse Sentimentale show are fictional.  
> Sir Simon Rattle is a real and awesome conductor, who is leaving the Berlin Philharmonic in 2017.  
> Julia Stoner, Bob Carruthers and Mrs. Maberley are all characters from ACD books.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back to this musical adventure. Again, any mistake is my fault alone. Please leave some feedback if you want and enjoy.

The students filed out at the same slow lazy pace as always, as if dreading to leave the safety of class and face the real world, dragging their feet and backpacks and conversations. It was somewhat comforting, hearing their companionable chatter and the soft whisper of paper across tabletops. The teacher watched from his desk, head on his hand, sitting beside the whiteboard filled with intervals classification and types of scales written in green choppy letters.

This was what John Watson’s life had become, unwillingly. He’d never dreamed of teaching basic musical theory to 12 year olds - or as Mike saw it, being a shaper of young minds - but that’s what had been placed in his hands. But if John was to call himself something, it would be a realist. He knew this was the best he could hope for and he was grateful for it. It could be worse and the kids were surprisingly alright. Too talkative for the class to go completely smoothly, but they were good kids.

Little feisty Violet Merville waved him goodbye as she shoved her things inside her bag and ran out the door and John smiled, arranging his teaching notes on a neat pile. The classroom was blessedly silent, the afternoon gloom filtering through the heavy curtains and highlighting a patch of wall where a Liszt portrait was slightly askew, hanging over the vertical piano.

St. Bart’s was a small and quaint music school, one of London’s hidden gems. It had a reputation for producing a few remarkable musicians. There were always a couple of students each year that had the potential to be more, to become leaders, soloists, conductors. John had been one of these students, once upon a time, leaving to study at the London College of Music. And then…well, then it was all done.

 _Enough of bloody reminiscing_ , John thought as he opened and turned on his laptop. He opened Sibelius, cracking his knuckles and wiggling his fingers, willing the inspiration to descend upon him. That was the exact moment Mike Stamford’s rotund silhouette appeared in the doorway, a large smile on his flushed face.

“Done with your classes for the day?”

John leaned back in his chair and linked his fingers behind his head, nodding.

“Pretty much, yeah. I wanted to squeeze in some writing time before I go home.”

Mike entered the room and pulled up a chair. “Right, how is it going anyway?”

The blond shrugged lightly. He’d been writing small pieces for younger students at some teachers' request and was currently working on something for the school’s orchestra. John had always done some composing, ever since uni, but never things that he’d show other people. After the accident, his therapist Ella had encouraged him to pick it back up as a way to channel his feelings. Music therapy, in a way. It hadn’t worked back then, mainly because whatever he’d been feeling was too raveled for him to even begin comprehending it. Now that his concentration wasn’t shattered by anger, however, he had to admit he found some peace in it.

“Not too bad. I think I can get this to Molly in a week or so. She’s been trying to get a peek at it but I told her I only show my work when it’s finished.”

“What is it called?” Mike asked, knowing John had taken a liking to giving his pieces quirky names.

John grinned and held up his hands as if presenting the title. “The Dancing Men.”

The other man shook his head and snorted. “Well, I think Molls will be happy with that.”

Molly Hooper was one of the youngest teachers the school had to offer, teaching the piano for a couple of years and then taking the orchestra under her wing. She was one of the few musicians John had ever met that combined the talent of being a great soloist but also a remarkable teacher. It was quite impressive how someone could juggle a full time teaching position with an active career as a pianist and do both with such commitment.

“I certainly hope so.”

Mike’s expression turned somewhat sheepish and he shifted in his seat. John knew that look too well, he’d been its target many times. Too many.

“You came here to ask me for a favour, didn’t you?” John sighed and ran a hand over his face. “Just tell me what it is before I regret even asking.”

“You know me way too well, John.” The bassoon teacher clapped once eagerly. “Here’s the thing, my wife is visiting her mother and I have to pick my daughter up from preschool today, so I can’t close the school like usual.” Mike oversaw the bassoon quartet later in the evenings when everyone else had already finished for the day, so he was in charge of locking up most days. “I’ve already asked Molly, since she already does it when I can’t, but she has a date.”

“So you’re asking me.” John finished for him, raising one eyebrow.

“Yes. Because you’re a great guy and I trust you not to rob the place and sell our instruments on the black market.”

The blond couldn’t suppress a laugh at that. “Sure, Mike. I’ll lock up and refrain from slipping the marimba into my bag on my way out.”

“Fantastic.” Mike shot up from the chair and dug a key chain from the pocket of his trousers, which he placed on John’s desk. “This is the office key and this is the front door key.” He pointed each one with a meaty finger. “You can close all the classrooms and then the office. Don’t forget to check all the windows are shut. Oh, and you already know the alarm code, so you can activate that.”

John assented and Mike gave him a friendly slap on his right shoulder - the good one.

“Have I told you you’re a great guy? Because you’re a really great guy.”

“Yeah, yeah, save your breath.” John shoved him away with very little strength. “Now let me work!”

The other teacher gave him a thumbs up and walked away, only to pause as he was crossing the threshold. He looked back over his shoulder.

“John?”

He hummed and looked up from his laptop.

“Good luck.” Mike whispered and left, leaving the other man frowning in confusion behind.

 _Good luck? What?_ John blinked and shook his head, attributing it to Mike’s occasionally odd behaviour. After all, how hard could locking up the school be?

\---

 

The end bar was finally in place after a thorough revision and rewrite of the flutes’ last measures. It wasn’t ready to print, John never did that at the end of a long session of composing because his endorphins were high and his judgement was clouded by the ecstasy of finishing a piece. He always slept on it and looked at his work with fresh eyes in the morning. Nevertheless, it was mostly completed, which probably wouldn’t have happened if he’d been working at home. The fact that the school was empty and quiet was a marked improvement on his flat, which had walls so thin he could hear his next door neighbour go about his business in the bathroom.

He sighed in satisfaction and looked at his watch. Just over midnight. He hadn’t had any dinner and his stomach was so empty and rumbling it was probably digesting itself. John saved his progress and shut down his laptop. He stood and stretched, his left shoulder cracking ominously and sending a dull pain all the way down his arm to his hand. Sitting at the computer for so long with his arm in the same position wasn’t doing wonders for his injury.

The accident had been so long ago, but John couldn’t help but feel he was still healing in some way. The limp he’d had for months after having his leg trapped in the car’s remains was all but gone, but his shoulder had never returned to normal. The surgeons had removed the metal shards from his shoulder, but in the process he’d lost some feeling and considerable dexterity in his hand, not to mention his arm strength wasn’t what it used to be. But the worst of it was the pain, which got particularly unbearable during the colder months, when it acted up with a special ferocity. Playing clarinet was no longer an option. And those who can’t do, teach. Or so everyone said.

John carefully rolled his shoulder, gently digging his fingers into the aching muscle to relieve some of the tension. The knots slowly eased and he opened and closed his hand a few times. That was marginally better. He slowly packed away his things, retrieved the keys from where Mike had left them that afternoon and started his round of the building, closing classrooms, checking everything was tidy and in its proper place.

All the classroom keys were left at the office and John made his way down the stairs to the main hallway. He opened his bag and checked he had everything. _Laptop. Notes. Wallet…_ Something was missing. _Fuck, my phone._ With a groan, John turned back to pick up his phone from where he’d left it charging behind his desk.

However, as he passed in front of the auditorium door, he noticed it was hanging slightly open. That wasn’t supposed to happen, since it hadn’t been used at all that week and remained closed when not in use. Frowning, John put down his things by the door and carefully pushed it open.

He heard it before he saw it. The hard almost grotesque graze of a bow over strings. Low rich notes being pulled from hell with slow, teasing vibrato. Fast scales played with the grace of a virtuoso reaching gently rounded high notes, so incongruently beautiful it the midst of the wrathful theme. No teacher played like this at Bart’s, and certainly no student.

Mouth hanging open, John snuck in without making a sound and sat down on one of the chairs in the back row. The room was dimly lit, with the exception of one of the spotlights, which drew a cone of light around the figure standing on the stage. It was a man, tall and slender, wearing black dress trousers and a deep midnight blue shirt unbuttoned at the throat. And what a throat it was, a marble column trapping a gorgeous violin. The man’s eyes were closed, a small frown between his eyebrows. A crown of luscious dark curls, falling over his forehead. High cheekbones crowning the angular, oddly beautiful face. He looked young, but not young enough to be a student, most likely in his twenties. And John had no clue who he was.

What John should be doing was asking him what the bloody hell he was doing there, but he found himself rooted to his place, unable to move as if hypnotised. The man had irreproachable technique, that much was clear. But there was something else underneath that transcended skill. It was an inherent and effortless sensuality, not just in his music, but in his movement. John had never seen anything so enthralling in his life.

Suddenly, the bow stilled and the stranger stood stock still. The sudden silence was like a slap to the face. Then he opened his eyes and spoke.

“I let people look at me for a living. I know when I’m being watched.” Even his voice was heavy, enigmatic.

John felt his cheeks burn for having been caught and he immediately stood, ready to apologize, when he remembered that he was not the one invading private property. The blond marched down the steps until he was near the stage and looked up at the other man.

“And I know when people are trespassing. Who are you and what are you doing here?” _Good job, John, you really don’t sound like you were spying on him a minute ago._

The young man rolled his eyes and lowered his instrument. “Do I look like a burglar to you? Nothing is broken in, so it’s abundantly obvious I have a key.”

This man had a key? The only people who had keys were Molly and Mike. John opened his mouth to ask, but the stranger waved his bow dismissively.

“Molly.” He said, simply. “She lets me use the auditorium to practice.”

How did he know that was what John was about to ask? “Oh. I didn’t know.”

“Clearly.” The brunet turned his back and walked towards a case that was sitting on the floor.

“I’m sorry. They should’ve told me someone was using the room. If I knew, I wouldn’t have bothered you.” John sighed and bit the inside of his cheek. When the other stayed silent, he continued speaking. “What were you playing?”

Wiping his instrument with a soft cloth, the violinist answered, “Sarasate.”

“It was brilliant.”

The young man had placed his violin carefully inside the case, but froze as he was closing it. He spun around, confusion in his eyes. “What?”

“It was amazing. Quite extraordinary.” John said honestly.

Green-blue eyes stared at him with burning intensity. “That’s not what people usually say.”

“What do people usually say?”

“Shut up.”

And then they both started laughing. Rich deep peels of laughter that the blond hadn’t produced in a long, long time. As the teacher was wiping his eyes and composing himself, the violinist had gathered his things, donned on a great dark coat that only made him look taller and was heading for the exit.

“Wait.” John called. “What’s your name?”

The other man looked back at him, one hand holding the door open. “Sherlock.” He offered a barely there smile and slipped out.

John slumped against the stage, exhaled thickly. _Holy shit._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Violet Merville is a character from The Adventure of the Illustrious Client.  
> Sibelius is one of the best music notation softwares out there.  
> St. Bart’s is fictional as a music school, of course. The London College of Music belongs to the University of West London and is very much real.  
> The Dancing Men is a nod to The Adventure of the Dancing Men.  
> This is the piece Sherlock was playing in the auditorium: Zigeunerweisen by Pablo Sarasate (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xir-5oAWxXE)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings, everyone! Thank you for all the kudos so far!  
> Here we have a new chapter. I'll try and update every other day, but no promises. I sincerely hope you enjoy this. Please comment if you'd like to leave a few words.

Coffee. Yes, that sweet nectar from the Java Gods. That was exactly what John needed right that very second. Oh, the glamorous life of an insomniac. John yawned widely as he blindly entered the teacher’s lounge, dropping his messenger bag on a chair and making a bee-line towards the coffee pot. It was still hot and he reached for his mug, filling it to the brim with the streamy liquid. He took a sip and groaned softly in appreciation.

Molly and Mike were sitting on opposite ends of the couch against the wall, speaking in hushed tones, drinks in hand, looking more refreshed than anyone had the right to at bloody 8 in the morning. John ambled in their direction and sat between them on the couch.

“Cheers.” He said, raising his mug a little and downing a considerable amount of coffee.

Mike looked at him over his glasses. “Rough night?”

John nodded. He’d always had trouble falling asleep, ever since his teenage years, but now the night terrors only maximised the problem. “Yeah, couldn’t sleep.”

A sympathetic look crossed Molly’s face and she squeezed his arm with a gentle hand. The three of them had been colleagues and friends long enough that he didn’t need to elaborate beyond that anymore. Clearly in an attempt to lighten the mood, Mike spoke up.

“What time did you leave, yesterday? Did everything go smoothly?”

That made the memories of the previous night and the unusual events it had brought resurface immediately. John finished his coffee and rested the mug on the floor before leaning back on the cushions.

“I left around midnight. Locking up was easy enough, but when I was leaving I noticed the auditorium was open, so I checked it out. There was a bloke there practicing the violin.” He looked over at Molly. “He said you gave him a key.”

She perked up considerably at that, sitting straighter in a way that made her ponytail bounce. “Oh! You met Sherlock.” Then, as if, remembering something, her enthusiasm fell from her face. “Was he very rude? Because he does that. I’m sorry.”

John shook his head, smiling despite himself. “No, he wasn’t…rude. He plays beautifully.”

“He’s really great, isn’t he?” Mike leaned forward a bit, the couch dipping with his weight. “Sherlock’s landlady doesn’t like him playing at all hours of the night, so he comes here. We talk when I close up. I mean, I talk and he ignores me, but still. I like to think we’re acquaintances.”

“That’s not sad to hear at all.” John teased and grinned. “Who is he, then? Friend of yours, Molly?”

Her eyes widened comically in complete disbelief. “You don’t know who he is?”

John’s eyebrows elevated, surprised. “Should I?”

The two other teachers were looking at him as if he was growing another head in front of their very eyes. “My God, John, do you leave under a rock?” Mike said, as Molly reached for her laptop, which was sitting on the coffee table. She quickly typed something and turned the screen towards the blond. The open internet article was a profile on the young man John had seen play the previous night, but he immediately realised this wasn’t any young violinist.

**Sherlock Holmes, the _Enfant Terrible_ ** sat at the top in garish black letters, followed by the quote:  
 _“Holmes’ playing is as controlled as it is destructive. A disciplined tempest - a paradox.”_

The article started with the following paragraph: _At age 15, when Sherlock Holmes was asked what made him a better violinist than his peers, he answered “because everyone else is an idiot”. Ten years later, he has only lived up to the heavy expectations placed upon him. Even though he is better known for his antics, such as throwing an audience member’s mobile phone against a wall after said individual took a call during the concert, he still captivates crowds with his rich lively performances. Graduating with honours from the Conservatoire de Paris, he has redefined what it means to be a young classical musician in the 21st century._

The wall of text was accompanied by a picture that admittedly made John feel a little warm under his shirt collar. It was undeniably the same willowy man John had seen, but this time chiseled in a no doubt bespoke tuxedo. He was on his side, facing the camera with an eyebrow elegantly raised. One hand was tucked inside a trouser pocket and the other, pale and graceful, was holding his violin and bow.

John nodded, signaling he’d finished reading, blinking somewhat owlishly. Molly set down her computer. “I know him from the Royal Academy. We were in the same Analysis class.”

“Didn’t the article say he graduated in Paris?”

“He did. He left the Royal after finishing his first year. Stuff…happened.” She waved it off, clearly uncomfortable talking about something that it wasn’t her place mentioning in the first place, so John didn’t press for more details. “Anyway, I perform as his piano accompanist sometimes. He pays me, of course, but I always feel like I owe him something. So I let him use the auditorium.” Molly smiled and checked her watch, immediately getting up. “Well, my first student is probably here already. We’ll talk later, boys.”

After she left, John took his mug to rinse in the sink by the fridge. Mike stood and leaned against the counter, arms folded across his chest. “So you spoke to him. Impressive. His preferred method of communication is glaring.”

“I spoke with him a bit. Accused him of trespassing. It wasn’t very nice of me, but to be fair I had no clue he had permission to be there.”

“And what did you think of him?” Mike’s tone wasn’t as innocent as he was trying to make it seem, but John ignored it.

“I thought he was interesting.”

“Is that all?”

“Yes, Mike, that is all. Fucking hell.”

The man grinned and held up his hands in a gesture of defense. “If you say so.”

\- - -

“There you are, dearie. Fresh from the oven.”

A plate loaded with an impressive slice of cake landed on the table in front of Sherlock’s face and he scrunched up his nose. “Not hungry, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Nonsense! When was the last time you ate?”

“I don’t know. I had a biscuit this morning, I think.”

The old lady in the purple dress and frilly apron turned to him and sent him the most lethal death glare humanity had ever witnessed.

“Sherlock Holmes, you will eat that cake or I will call your mother and tell her you’re not taking care of yourself properly.”

As soon as she turned her back, the young man made a face but still gingerly picked up his fork and shoved a considerable chunk of cake into his mouth. No one spoke, but their silence was companionable, born of many years of acquaintance. Mrs. Hudson pottered around, stowing things away in her cabinets, wiping down the counter.

They’d do this every week, sit in her kitchen and talk, go over Sherlock’s chosen repertoire. Reviving old times, in a way, when Sherlock would sit in her living room, bruised and scraped knees peeking out from his shorts, small violin on his lap, looking up at her with wide blue eyes. He’d sulk for a bit and then clutch the bow in a chubby hand and promise to play very well. That had been long ago, of course, back when she’d been his first violin teacher. Now, she was a retired widow who gave Sherlock a fantastic discount on a flat. She didn’t have anyone else, really, that’s what being in the music business for as long as she had did to a person. So Sherlock would keep her company. She’d made him the violinist he was, after all.

The stillness was broken by her voice, soft but firm. “I spoke to Greg the other day. He’s worried. You won’t even leave the flat.”

Sherlock scraped the last crumbs on the plate with his fork. “As usual, he’s wrong. I went to Bart’s last night.”

Her face lit up at that. “That explains how quiet the flat was! Did you see Mike or Molly? Oh, I haven’t talked to those two in way too long.”

“No, it was…someone else.”

Mrs. Hudson didn’t miss the minuscule hesitation. She stared at him expectantly until he sighed and gave in.

“He’s a teacher at the school. I don’t know much about him.”

“You don’t know.” She deadpanned.

“No, I don’t know. Do you really need to mock me like that? I didn’t get a good look. He was short, blond, wearing a ridiculously ugly jumper. And he didn’t insult me, which was pleasant.”

The woman looked oddly pensive at that, but her expression was in every other way inscrutable.

“Well, you could use a friend.”

Sherlock looked up, all shocked eyes and mouth hanging open. “I don’t have friends!”

Mrs. Hudson set down her cloth and slid into the seat on the opposite side of the table, facing Sherlock with the same patient look she used to give him when he refused to do his scales.

“I’m your friend. Mike and Molly are your friends. So is your brother, even if you treat him like your greatest enemy.” He scowled, but she held up a hand and shut him up. “All I’m saying is someone new would be good.” She reached out, squeezed his hand. “I know a lonely soul when I see one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Royal Academy of Music and the Conservatoire de Paris are real schools.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, guys! I'm updating one day earlier because...I want to.  
> Let me know what you're thinking about this. Enjoy. :)

The television cast a chilly blue glow over the otherwise dark room, the low sound no more than a whisper. John wasn’t watching, not really, reclining back on his pillows, the covers pulled all the way up to his chin to battle his flat’s frosty temperature. The cold wasn’t as bad as the previous year, when even bundled in four layers of clothing he’d sworn he’d get frostbite. He was staring unblinkingly at the screen, failing to register anything that was happening in the latest episode of the reality show currently plaguing his tv set.

He was used to this, living alone in the cheapest flat he could rent, hearing his neighbours bicker and children scream, not able to afford heating or air conditioning. It actually wasn’t that bad. He’d lived in worse places, namely with his sister Harry, right after he’d been discharged from the hospital. His current arrangements looked like The Savoy compared to that. It would still be nice to live somewhere he wasn’t forced to keep a pet cockroach in the kitchen. He’d been saving up considerable chunks of the acceptable salary St. Bart’s paid him for that, hoping that in the not so distant future he’d be able to move, even if getting a roommate would be the most sensible option.

With a sigh, John burrowed deeper into the folds of his bed, turning his eyes to the white, slightly cracking ceiling. Ever since he’d finished The Dancing Men a week ago, he hadn’t written anything else. That was normal for him, since no other teacher had approached him and Molly was quite content with her piece as it was. However, John couldn’t help feeling out of sorts.

A timid melodic line had been playing in the back of his mind in a never ending loop. It was a simple nostalgic theme, something not completely out of character for his music, but different all the same. It reminded him of an elegance he couldn’t quite place, something simultaneously bittersweet and hedonic. As John studied one of the fissures on the plaster, and that melody kept playing in his head, he instinctively willed his mind to transform those indistinct notes into sumptuous cello tones.

Velvety slurs of notes. _The curve of a hip, the line of a throat. Long fingers._

“Violins and violas below. Simple supporting harmony. Long notes on the bassoon and double bass.” He murmured to himself.

_Blue eyes. They pin down. Deconstruct your very existence._

“Then the flute takes over the theme. The oboe responds. Back to the flute. It grows, transfers to the first violins. And _forte_. Suspension.”

John paused and then sat up, surprised at himself. _Where the hell did that come from?_ He breathed heavily for a moment and then kicked back his covers, scrambling for his laptop.

\- - -

Mike’s fork, piled with soft moist scrambled eggs paused en route to his mouth.

“You’re doing what?”

John shrugged noncommittally, trying to look as if he wasn’t taking seriously something he’d spent the entire night on.

“Writing a symphony.”

Molly and Mike were both sitting across from him and looking like someone had just told them they were going to meet the Queen dressed in penguin costumes.

“I had no idea you were so dedicated to composing, John.” She said gently, but still sounding thoroughly surprised.

“Me neither.” The blond admitted, between bites of his toast. “I started last night. You know when you’re doing nothing at all and your mind starts wondering and all of a sudden you’re thinking about something extremely specific and complicated without any effort whatsoever? That’s what happened.”

John smeared some more strawberry jam on his bread and continued eating, smiling through a mouthful. His friends still seemed shocked, but had recovered in the most part. The three of them would occasionally meet and have a proper English breakfast on days their mornings were free of classes. They’d sit around a table at Speedy’s, their regular place, sip tea and eat calmly while complaining about their lives.

“That’s fantastic, John.” Mike was already smiling, a mischievous glint behind his glasses. “Glad to see you so inspired.”

“I don’t know if I am, depends if it lasts or not. I don’t even know if I’m going to finish it.”

“Well, if I know something about you it’s that you’re not a quitter.” Molly encouraged, tipping her tea cup in his direction. “As long as you still have time to write pieces for my orchestra, I completely back your decision of becoming a great composer. Not that you aren’t already great. You know what I mean.” She blushed faintly.

“Yeah, I’ll get back to you on that, Molls.”

“I think you should be careful, though.” The bassoon teacher started with a teasingly sombre expression. “You know what happens when people start writing symphonies.” There was a heavy pause for drama. “They drop dead after the ninth.”

John laughed, covering his face with his hand so that tea wouldn’t escape through his nose.

“I mean it, mate.” Mike waved his fork inauspiciously. “Beethoven. Bruckner. Schubert. Dvorak. They all died before finishing their tenth. I’d be careful.”

When John was about to joke he’d stick to eight symphonies, a rumbling voice cut through their conversation like a knife through soft butter.

“That is a ridiculous myth. Shostakovich wrote 15 symphonies. Why people think a number dictates life and death is absolutely beyond me.”

If John had ever wondered what it would feel like to get hammered on the chest, he knew now. The other two teachers beamed at the newcomer, motioning for him to sit down on the only available seat at the table, right beside John.

“Sherlock!” Mike exclaimed. “Good morning.”

The violinist only hummed back, stare strangely fixed on John. Molly looked between them both for a second. “Sherlock, you’ve met John, right?”

“Yes.” His eyes were as appraising as they’d been the week before, only even brighter in the ample early light. “Hello.”

The blond was filled by a startling fear of having breadcrumbs all over his face, so he picked up his napkin and wiped his mouth. He extended his hand to the younger man.

“We haven’t been introduced. I’m John. Watson. I teach at Bart’s.”

For a moment, John thought Sherlock wasn’t going to participate in the greeting, but eventually one of those graceful hands reluctantly wrapped around John’s and shook it.

“Sherlock Holmes. I break into Bart’s.” There was a hint of humour in his voice, just enough for anyone to doubt it was even there at all.

John flushed slightly and shrugged as he let go of Sherlock. “You should be careful, then. Someone may catch you red-handed.”

“I’m too good to be caught.”

“Yes, you’re really quite good, aren’t you?”

Their banter was easy, effortless. As a routine that had been practiced so many times it was imbedded in their bones, even though they’d just met. Molly was back to looking mind boggled, accordingly, while the brunet teacher just grinned.

It was Sherlock’s turn to flush imperceptibly, just a ghosting of colour high on his cheekbones.

“You tell me.”

John’s smile widened, not even minding that there was probably food on his teeth. The violinist hadn’t sat down, towering over them in his same long intimidating coat. Normally, the blond would feel self-conscious in his worn jeans and striped jumper, but he was too enthralled by their mutual staring to care.

Mike cleared his throat loudly, turning a couple of heads at the adjacent tables. “Well, this was quite pleasant, but we really do have to get back to the school.” He opened his wallet and set a couple of notes on the table, since it was his turn to pay.

“Of course.” Sherlock assented, nodding. “I’m just arriving home from meeting my agent, actually.”

“Oh, you live here?” John inquired.

“Next door.”

“That’s great, you should join us for breakfast next time.” He looked at the other two expectantly. Molly, who was already standing and putting on her coat, paused her gaping like a fish to mutter something like: “Yes. Breakfast. Eating. Yes. Sure.”

“There you go. The invitation is out there.”

John picked up his jacket, draped over the back of his chair, and winked.

Sherlock blushed so violently it overtook his whole face and just made his eyes look bluer, deeper, clearer. It was absolutely charming, the spread of scarlet over a pale unmarred face. The blond grinned all the way to the school.

\- - -

That night, when John got home, he lay down on the couch, opened the Sibelius document housing the first steps of his symphony and renamed it:

_A Symphony in Scarlet_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Curse of the Ninth Symphony is, of course, a myth.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, guys. I'm sorry for not updating sooner, but my weekend was absolutely hectic. In compensation, you have an extra long chapter today! I'll be back to my usual every other day posting schedule this week!  
> Thank you for all the kudos and comments so far. You're amazing. I hope you're enjoying reading this as much as I'm enjoying writing it.  
> Now, onto the story...

Shadows were floating on the other side of the frosted glass door, undefined silhouettes that seemed to fuse and divide like a moving Rorschach image. Voices filtered out, too jumbled for words to be evident. Scattered laughs now and then. Mondays meant staff meeting at Bart’s, and that particularly day it apparently also meant Sherlock standing awkwardly in front of the meeting room, shifting on his feet.

 _What am I even doing here? I’m an idiot. Anderson is rubbing off on me. Great._ Sherlock ran a jittery hand through his hair, merely making it unrulier than it was before. _What am I expecting? A punch to the face, probably._

Mrs. Hudson was, if anything, extremely persuasive. After he’d told her about meeting Mike, Molly and John at Speedy’s, she had pestered him for two whole days about going out more, spending time with people that weren’t her or Billy the skull, socialising. He cringed inwardly, knowing his social skills were fragile at best, but the truth was he was bored. Immensely so. And lonely - not that he’d ever admit that aloud to anyone ever. So here he was, looking like a six year old waiting to be reprimanded.

_How do people do this? My God, no wonder there is hypertension._

Sherlock busied himself by fiddling with his phone, quickly reading through emails. There were a couple from Greg and an extremely lengthy and annoying one from Mycroft, to which he responded viciously, typing so fast he couldn’t even react when the meeting room door opened. Sally Donovan froze on the doorway for a fraction of a second but covered it up by strolling into the hallway with a haughty air.

“Hi, Freak. Long time no see.”

Without even looking up from his phone, he answered in a flat blasé tone. “Good evening, Sally. I see you keep putting your flute skills to good use with Anderson.”

She looked as if he’d struck her. The referenced man was trailing just behind her and looking over her shoulder with a horrified expression. No one said anything for a long cumbersome moment until Sally suddenly raised her hand and aimed it straight at Sherlock’s face. The violinist readied himself for the inevitable blow, but without warning an arm clad in oatmeal wool was thrust between them.

“Sally.” Said John Watson’s low voice, tinged with warning. “I’d keep my hands to myself if I were you.”

“What? You can’t be serious. Did you hear what he said to me?” She shrieked, as Anderson put a hand on her back.

“I did.” John replied simply. “I thought it was prime musical innuendo. I also heard what you told him before that. So lay off.”

By that moment, Mike and Molly had already joined the group and were steering Sherlock away from the other two teachers. John stayed behind, saying something to Sally that was impossible to overhear, but his body language was tense. The conflict between Sherlock and Sally had begun not long after he’d started using the auditorium to practice. As the violin teacher, Anderson felt uncomfortable someone else was invading his territory, so had been hostile from day one. However, even when unwelcoming, he maintained some civility. Sally was a whole another story, behaving like an avenging fury every time she could, protecting the man that was seeing her behind his wife’s back. It had been fun at first and Sherlock wasn’t completely innocent, but now it was just tiring.

“Jesus, that woman. Someone get her some sedatives.” Mike grumbled, patting Sherlock on the arm.

Molly looked like she wanted to check him for injuries, even though there had been no physical contact. “Yes, I think everyone needs to calm down a bit. If students had been around, it wouldn’t have been good.”

Sherlock kept his eyes glued to the back of John’s head until he turned and made his way to them. His posture had loosened and he was smiling. “You alright?”

“Of course. It takes more than an enraged mistress to take me down.”

John gave him a look that chastised him without loosing its amusement. Again, like during their encounter at Speedy’s, the young violin player felt as if something was slowly but steadily constricting in his chest.

“Glad to hear it. I wasn’t expecting to see you here, though.” John stated, and his friends agreed.

“I came here to ask the three of you to dinner tonight. My landlady seems to think I don’t get out enough and I need to repay your hospitality for letting me use the auditorium.” His eyes landed on John. “And defending my honour.”

The piano teacher deflated a bit, looking disappointed. “I wish I could go. But I already have plans.” Her smiled revived a bit. “Second date with Tom.”

“I can’t either, unfortunately.” His completely unapologetic look contrasted with his words. “Promised my kid I’d treat her to a film. That’s a promise I can’t break, my friends. Another time.”

All eyes turned towards John, who was slightly gaping. “I…”

“Sherlock, you and John should still go, though.” Molly piped up. “John is a bit of a hermit himself.”

It was true, even if the man did appear sheepish at being confronted about it like that.

“I guess it would be alright.” The blond accented as he scratched the back of his neck. 

The younger man stood a little bit straighter. “Good. I’ll meet you at the door? I know a fantastic place.”

“Sounds great. I just need to pick up my things from the classroom. I’ll see you in a minute.”

As John took off, Sherlock let out a breath and peered at Mike from the corner of his eye. “I see what you’re doing. And I’m not impressed.”

The older teacher chuckled quietly and rubbed his hands together. “You’re welcome.”

\- - -

London held the same enchantment it always did, lights in yellows, reds and blues flying by the cab window, adorned by the fine drizzle. The constant slide of sidewalks merging with the geometric cut of buildings, twin slender houses, white columns, black doors, marble stairs. The neon glow of shop windows, dark umbrellas, people smoking outside pubs. All things blurring together as the vehicle moved on.

John was watching the scene serenely, half his face lit and the other thrown in shadow. Sherlock noticed how much younger he looked like this, less burdened by life and concerns, calm enough for a soft smile to play constantly at his lips. Even if they weren’t speaking, John seemed content with it. Most people would be uncomfortable with silence, finding it awkward and needing to fill it with something, anything. But not this man. It was often like this with musicians, finding the same value in quietness and noise, knowing it must be a combination of both that creates order. Because how would you be able to enjoy sound if there wasn’t also silence?

John Watson was apparently as transparent as a man could get. He was persistent, dedicated to his work, organized, willing to put himself under fire to defend others. But there was something else about him, a hidden flame, a closeted rage. A very basic tension that he tried hard to keep under control and largely succeeded. It was intriguing. Not many people had that sort of restraint.

“I find you very interesting.” Sherlock blurted out without really meaning to.

The other man peered at him blearily but there was still a kind of satisfied surprise to him. “Really? How so?”

That was the central question indeed. Why? Why did a man so ordinary, who taught children for a living, feel so cryptic?

“You were injured some time ago. That’s why you teach instead of playing.”

“Sounds like you have me pretty figured out. How do you know that?”

“You shield your left side. It would be strange, since you write with your left hand. So injured. But you don’t seem bothered by it most of the time, which means there is no constant overwhelming pain. If it was recent, there would be, not to mention you wouldn’t be so adapted to it. You’ve been teaching academic subjects at Bart’s but that’s not your original training. You were a performer before the event that wounded you. Your fingers are long enough to be nimble, but you wouldn’t have the necessary width of hand to have a good range as a professional pianist, and they aren’t rough enough for a string player. However, you have a very distinct yet fading callous on your right thumb. Clarinet, then.”

John’s mouth was hanging open, his eyes were wide, the very picture of astonishment.

“You really could tell all that from looking at me?”

“Yes.” Sherlock looked away, unable to meet those shocked eyes. “And Google.”

The violinist could hear John letting out a disbelieving exhale.

“Amazing.”

Sherlock smiled, but kept his eyes out the window, observing the same scenery the other had seemed so transfixed by. “It’s my curse, in a way. Knowing everything with just a glance.”

“It’s still fantastic. My God, Sherlock, you really are brilliant.”

The praised affected him more than usual. He was used to people telling me what a great musician he was, how cleverly he tore into pieces and took them apart to show the heart, still warm and pumping. This was, however, something different. This man was in awe of him for the very thing that kept all other people at a distance. It was new.

Before he got the chance to respond, the cab slowly rolled to a stop. Sherlock paid the fare and both men exited onto the sidewalk. They were standing in front of a restaurant, small and charming, golden lights glimmering though a big window lined in white wood. As they entered, they were greeted by a huge bearded man in a graying ponytail.

“Sherlock! Welcome, welcome!” His accent was undoubtedly Italian and there was something impish about his big friendly face.

“Angelo.”

“And you bring a friend! Wonderful. Your usual table is free.”

The colossal Italian man guided them towards the window-side table, framed by dark green seats. They sat, John with his back to the window and Sherlock against the wall.

“I’ll be right with you.” The man said, quickly navigating through the tables and disappearing behind a door that presumably led to the kitchen. The place wasn’t full, but there were enough people there to provide a comfortable backdrop of muted conversation. 

“Who was that?” John asked, clearly amused, already reaching for a breadstick.

“That was the owner, Angelo.”

“You seem very chummy with him.”

Sherlock reclined on his seat, draping an arm across its back. “I got Angelo out of considerable trouble some years ago.”

John nodded encouragingly, clearly very interested. “Trouble with…the police?”

“No. Well, someone else was in trouble with the police. His cousin was supposed to be the violinist at his wedding, but was unfortunately arrested for breaking and entering the day before. Angelo and I have a mutual acquaintance, so I ended up filling in.”

The teacher laughed quietly, munching on a bite of bread. His eyes, which were so dark that normally appeared brown, were obviously deep blue in the tepid glow and lit with mirth. John spoke up again after Angelo had returned to take their orders and pour them twin glasses of red wine.

“So, if I’m to correctly judge your character, there’s something I need to know. Who’s your favourite composer?” The blond was sitting back comfortably, relaxed, features dancing cheekily.

“While I am very fond of many composers when it comes to playing, only Bach takes the top position.”

“I thought you’d say that.”

“What do you mean?” The younger man frowned, not used to being the recipient of that kind of remark.

“Bach is very clinical on the page. Stark notes and rhythm, there’s not a lot to work with. But once you channel with it, create a connection, there’s a lot to explore. Passion, sorrow, peace.” John smirked, shrugging with one shoulder. “Like you.”

Sherlock stayed silent, biting the inside of his lip to prevent himself from smiling.

“See? You’re not the only one who sees through people.” John picked up his wine glass and clinked it against Sherlock’s.

The violinist found himself absolutely baffled by this man. How could someone that had seen his life so destroyed, turned upside down and forced to do something so different from all his hopes and dreams, crack a joke so easily?

Sherlock had read the news dating back to John’s accident. The man had been returning from a concert with his sister Harriet, who’d been driving. They’d been arguing when they were hit by a lorry. The photos were brutal, the car’s left side completely destroyed. John’s sister had escaped with just a concussion and a few scrapes. John had been in ICU for a week.

Picking up his wine glass, the brunet took a sip, the liquid waltzing easily across his mouth. “Maybe I’m rubbing off on you.”

“Maybe.”

\- - -

The food had been excellent, as always. The pasta was _al dente_ , the sauce blood red and rich with just the right amount of salt. Sherlock even ate more than his normal portion, which surprised Angelo greatly. The young man found that discussion between him and John flowed smoothly. They spoke about John’s time as a student at Bart’s, the trouble he and Mike had gotten into as teens - accidentally setting fire to a jacket, permanently staining walls with nail varnish stolen from a colleague - and about Sherlock’s famous spats with the conductor Charles Augustus Milverton and Adelbert Gruner, the famous Austrian violinist. They’d discussed their favourite Beethoven symphonies over dessert and finished their wine dissing Anderson and Sally.

“They’re ridiculous. Picking fights with everyone for no reason. I wish they’d channel all that frustration into playing, they’d be much better musicians.” John remarked. They were standing just outside the restaurant, having finished their delicious free of charge meal.

“I agree. But I doubt it would give them the technical skills they lack.”

The blond snorted. “True. I don’t know, I just wish things were more peaceful sometimes.”

Naturally, their talking halted to a point they were just standing there, two shadows on the street. At least it had stopped raining.

“Well, I think it’s time for me to get home.” John sighed as he zipped up his jacket. “Early classes tomorrow, unfortunately. At least it’s my oldest group, I’m not sure I could handle my youngest after that bottle of wine.”

He held his right hand out smiling broadly. Sherlock wrapped his own around it. The former clarinetist’s cheeks had pinked nicely from the alcohol and the companionable laughter. Sherlock surprised himself by thinking this man didn’t even know how attractive he was.

“You’re right.” He paused. “This was pleasant.”

“Very. I hope we can do this again.”

They were still shaking hands, warm and sweaty. No one was letting go.

“We will. I’ll see you at Bart’s.”

When their hands unclasped, Sherlock Holmes knew with absolute certainty that, for the first time in his life, he’d found someone decidedly not boring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Charles Augustus Milverton from The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton was the inspiration for the BBC's Magnussen.  
> Baron Adelbert Gruner is from The Adventure of the Illustrious Client and one of Sherlock Holmes' great enemies.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, there. New chapter. And the plot thickens...  
> Thank you for all your support! Keep leaving kudos and comments. If you like the story, show your friends. If you don't, show your enemies.  
> Peace and love, my lovelies!

Everyone could see John Watson was in high spirits. He’d arrived just after Molly and had sat at the teachers’ lounge, humming during his morning cup of tea. He’d even struck conversation with Sarah Sawyer, one of the other piano teachers, which was unusual. Mike was watching him from the desk where he’d been organising sheet music for the bassoon quartet but ended up sitting with him on the couch when Sarah left and John was reading the newspaper.

“Looks like your date went well.” 

John rolled his eyes, even though he was still smiling. “It wasn’t a date. But yes, dinner with Sherlock was great. He has some hilarious stories. You should’ve come along.”

“Are you joking? And miss watching Frozen and Tangled in one sitting? I don’t think so.”

Instead of responding, John just pursed his lips in amusement, eyes still glued to the black letter printed neatly on white paper. Mike knew from their teenage years that John wasn’t the sort to kiss and tell. Over then years ago, John had been the dream of any person whose type was a musician - he was good looking, talented, smart. On top of all that, he was also part of a breed close to extinction - gentlemen. So the man’s resistance to babble about the previous night could mean many things and nothing at all.

“At least you enjoyed yourself.” Mike continued. “I’m sure sitting around that flat alone for hours on end isn’t the best environment for symphony writing.”

The blond gently turned the page, looking up. “That’s a subtle way to ask me how composing is going.”

Mike threw his hands up in mock surrender. “Oh, you see my cunning plan, Mr. Watson!”

John stood, folding the newspaper, and tucked it under his arm. “An unnecessary cunning plan. The symphony is going well. I’m still battling with the first movement, it’s hard work.”

“Let us know when we can see it.”

“You know I only put my work out there when it’s finished, otherwise I’ll be fending off unwanted opinions with a stick.” He said, throwing the newspaper so it would land on the other’s lap. “I’ll see you later, Mike.”

Making his way through the hallway, John enjoyed the stray bits of music floating out of partially closed doors. Shaky fingers on piano keys plowing through Chopin, someone doing scales on a flute, shapeless undulating notes played by strings rising like ghosts from a dimension where time is measured in song. It was quite beautiful, this shambled collection of musical nothings, the genuine sound of teaching and learning. 

Adult voices mingled with infant shrieks filtered up from the main lobby downstairs as John ambled to his classroom. To his bewilderment, the door was already open. It should’ve been impossible, since he’d picked up the key from the office and it had been in the exact same spot where he’d left it the previous day. Cautiously, John opened it the rest of the way.

There was a man installed on the bench at the vertical piano. Even sitting he was evidently tall, wearing an obviously expensive grey pinstriped three-piece suit. His tie was looped in what was probably the neatest, most perfect windsor knot to ever decorate anyone’s neck. And even though the rain had stopped and the sun was timidly peeking out from behind the ubiquitous clouds, there was a sturdy umbrella propped up against the wall. He looked around John’s age, early to mid thirties, without one trace of silver in his auburn hair.

A quirk of lips was the only acknowledgement the teacher had even entered the room. The man was dragging his hand slowly over the black keys as if stroking the back of a long lost family cat. John’s previously good mood was quickly dissipating. He was still holding onto the door handle, knuckles tight and white, when he addressed the stranger.

“Can I help you, sir?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Watson. Maybe you can.”

Rubbing his eyes, John let out an impatient sigh. “Really? How so?”

Finally, the visitor’s hands stilled on the keyboard and he unfolded himself from his perched position on the piano stool. Tall was absolutely right.

“I believe you’ve recently started an association with Sherlock Holmes.”

The situation was quickly crossing the line from the intrusive and into the sinister territory. The blond closed the door with a little more strength than necessary and took a step closer to the other man. Being short, John had learned not to be intimidated by height. He raised his head and stared the man directly in the eye.

“I believe that’s nothing of your business.”

“You’d be wrong. It’s very much my business.” The stranger’s voice, while still as velvety and condescending as it’d been when the conversation first started, now held an edge of threat. The gloves were off, then.

“Look, I don’t know what you want or who you are, but I’m absolutely not going to discuss my private life with someone who broke into my classroom.” 

“What I want is simple. Information. As for who I am, well…I’m an interested party.”

Those words made John’s brain stutter to a stop. This man, who hadn’t even introduced himself, wanted information. _What?_

“You do know you sound like a really bad Bond villain impersonator, right?” 

Smirk turned into gaping and smug stare into wide shocked eyes. He clearly wasn’t used to being talked to like that. John took it as a personal victory. Once recovered, the man’s face hardened.

“Mr. Watson, I’m not here to play games…”

“Sounds like you are.” John interrupted, but the other carried on, disregarding his comment.

“This is of considerable importance. Sherlock Holmes can’t afford distractions. I’m here to make sure you aren’t going to be one and to offer you the opportunity to extend your meager salary by reporting back to me on his activities.”

“No.”

An austere stretch of silence washed over both of them like electricity on water. Two people on the edge of a precipice, unwilling to give up the opportunity to be the last one standing.

Reaching for his umbrella, the stranger spoke quietly. “Not many people reject chances like that so lightly.”

“I was always taught not to take sweets from strangers. Specially in this business.”

Unexpectedly, the man looked actually impressed by John’s decision. He smoothed down his waistcoat and buttoned his jacket. “Very well, Mr. Watson.”

When he smiled, the left side of his mouth lifting imperceptibly, just the tiniest bit, John was hit by a strong feeling of familiarity that he couldn’t quite place. _Do I know this man? Impossible._

“I’ll be in touch.” He said, sounding practiced and polished as he brushed past the blond and exited the room.

\- - -

Broken strings and old, dusty sheet music were gathered as Molly made her way through St. Bart’s storage room, right at the top floor of the building. It’d been an attic of sorts many years ago, that much was clear by the wood beams supporting the ceiling, stark like a skeleton, and the trunks filled with practice books that were too ancient and disintegrating to be used again. Presently, the area served as an archive and as depository for the instruments the school owned. They were rented at symbolic prices to the students, a way not to force parents to commit financially to an instrument their child wouldn’t want to pursue.

Frayed violin and cello cases piled up next to a titanic double bassoon case. Flute kits were positioned in orderly lines inside a cardboard box. Molly picked on a worn seam at one of the violin cases and sighed. The situation wasn’t ideal. The instruments were extremely timeworn. Metals were dented, strings had fractured tuning pegs. Buying new ones, however, wasn’t a bright possible option. It would take a considerable investment that the school couldn’t afford. All the money St. Bart’s made from tuition was channeled towards paying for teachers’ salaries, bills and building maintenance. Perspectives were grim.

Molly swallowed thickly and looked over when a gentle hand landed on her arm.

“Mike. Hi.”

The older teacher stood by her side, looking over the clutter. “Have you catalogued everything?”

“Yes. It’s… It’s not good, Mike. This stuff is old, needing to be replaced. I can’t hand kids damaged instruments, but I also can’t ask the parents for more money.”

“I know.”

They both watched dust particles swirl in the rays of light streaming through the only window. At the last staff meeting, someone had mentioned it was time for an inventory, knowing exactly how many instruments were still in shape to be used, but no one really thought the reality would be so cruel, so disheartening. 

“There must be something we can do.” Mike said.

Molly’s voice was resigned. “Do you have thousands of pounds lying around? Because if you do, you just may save this whole mess.”

“Point taken.”

Molly tapped her foot nervously, biting her lower lip. She could only see one solution. And no matter how hard it would be, it would give the kids better conditions. That afternoon, she picked up the phone and dialed a number she had once sworn to forget.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter number seven has landed on your screen! Hi!  
> Things are taking off here. People are upsetting the peace at Bart's...  
> As always, leave kudos and comments and above all enjoy!

It was a bad shoulder day.

Tossing and turning in the night and sleeping in odd positions ended up doing a number on John, the muscled curled so tight bone could barely be felt and skin too sensitive to the smallest touch. His discomfort had been so obvious that an old lady had even offered him her seat on the tube. Which he hadn’t taken, of course.

Working on the symphony had become a sort of nighttime ritual over the past weeks. It calmed him down before bed, made him forget about the times he’d simply lie back against the pillows and stare at the wall, insomnia only generating more insomnia like a never ending circle of not getting any sleep. Unluckily, it also led to him falling asleep strangely contorted and waking up with his laptop precariously dangling on the edge of the bed.

He’d washed a muscular relaxant and a painkiller down with his first cuppa as soon as he got to Bart’s. John hated popping pills and avoided doing so as much as possible, but every once in a while it was as unavoidable as rain in London.

Morning classes were a moderately effective way to at least forget about the pain. He’d decided to talk to the younger kids about orchestras, their different types and formations, how they had evolved throughout time to adapt to the growth and transformation of the classical music currents. The children had seemed particularly captivated when he’d played some examples - Bernstein directing Tchaikovsky, Abbado directing Vivaldi.

As John watched their little faces open in wonder of this music, something tilted sideways in his chest. He’d been like this once, hadn’t he? Someone had showed him the same things, once upon a time. And this was the reason why he did what he did. Even though he acutely missed playing, as any musician would, teaching was a different kind of accomplishment. At the end of the class, he even giggled when he heard the last two students to leave the room, Billy Wiggins and Toby Gregson, calling each other _maestro_. It made his injury just a little bit more bearable for the day.

In the blessed quiet of his classroom, safe haven by excellence, and now that the throbbing in his shoulder had somewhat subsided and his mood had lifted, John decided to finally include in his symphony some ideas he’d jotted down the previous week. He worked all through the morning, pausing merely once to get some tea, and well into lunch time. Mike came in at some point to ask him if he wanted to join them for some Pret A Manger sandwiches, but he declined.

His stomach had different views on the subject, though, clearly stated by the loud rumbling as John was working on some harmonically complex measures. That was the moment his phone buzzed on his desk. Only a few people ever texted him and one of them was Harry, so the teacher saved his draft and peered at the screen.

_Sweet & Sour Pork or Chicken Chop Suey? -SH_

The words glowing back at him were probably the last thing he was expecting. It was from an unknown number and John briefly entertained the idea of not responding, but there was something gnawing at the back of his mind, telling him to.

_Who is this?_

A response came so quickly John still had his phone in hand.

_John, I hardly have time for this and I hate repeating myself. Sweet & Sour Pork or Chicken Chop Suey? -SH_

This was probably the most bizarre texting conversation he’d ever held, not that he’d had many. John blinked at his phone and before he even had time to answer, another text came through.

_I’ll take your silence as an absence of preference. If you’re not satisfied later, it will be your fault entirely and I won’t hear you whine about it. -SH_

There was probably just one person in the world that spoke like that and SH were his initials.

 _Sherlock?_ John texted back. 

No response.

His guess was confirmed when not a long time later an unambiguous dark figure stood just outside his door. Apart from what John had taken to calling The Coat of Mystery, Sherlock looked more relaxed than during their previous meetings. For one, he was wearing dark wash jeans and his forest green shirt looked more simple than the posh silky things he’d worn before. He was carrying his violin case in one hand and a white plastic bag in the other, which very obviously contained cartons of Chinese takeout.

“Are you going to just stand there brooding? Come in.” John stood, smirking, and busied himself cleaning his whiteboard. He could hear the impact of Sherlock’s shoes on the wooden floor as he approached.

The other’s voice floated towards him and glossed over the musical fragments and ideas for melodic lines still wrapping themselves around the tendrils of John’s conscious mind.

“Well, I don’t want to hurt your delicate sensibilities by invading your space uninvited.” John welcomed that already familiar hint of teasing. “We already know you react interestingly to that.”

“Says the man who unexplainably has my number.” The blond finished his task and sat back down at his desk, where Sherlock was unloading several cartons of food. The smell that sprung from the food was slightly sweet, rich and comforting. It was as if he could already taste the soy sauce obscenely poured over white meat and finely cut vegetables.

“I stole it from Mike’s phone.” The violinist said simply, as if talking about a completely ordinary procedure. He placed chopsticks on top of one of the containers and pushed it towards John.

Well, that sounded typical. The blond shook his head fondly and tore into his box, letting the pungently salty steam disperse before burying his chopsticks in it. “And how did you know I was here?”

Sherlock copied John’s movements. John wasn’t surprised to see Sherlock had brought the pork for himself and the chicken for him. “I called Molly to know if the auditorium was available for me. She said it was and that you were staying here over lunch, so I should ask you if I needed anything.”

“And you brought me food? That’s very nice of you.”

“Our last meal was enjoyable. It’s only logical wanting to repeat the experience.”

“Can’t disagree with that.”

They ate in relative silence for a while until Sherlock noticed the CD cases next to John’s laptop.

“You play the Berlin Philharmonic for your students? I’m impressed.”

John smiled and reached for a napkin to wipe the sauce from his lips. “Shouldn’t I? When I started teaching, I noticed the older students, who were already relatively advanced in their instruments, were very poorly educated in orchestral music.”

Sympathetically, Sherlock nodded. He was more picking at his food than eating it, but occasionally a piece of pork would find its way into his mouth. “You’re right. When I studied in Paris, I had a specially idiotic colleague who didn’t know who many of the great conductors of all time were.”

“Let me guess.” John dropped his chopstick in his now mostly empty carton. “You called him an idiot in French.”

The violinist looked up, eyes smiling. “Yes. I called him an _imbécile_.”

“It certainly sounds much better like that. Did you learn French before going?”

“No. I’ve been fluent all my life. My grandmother was French and refused to speak any English. I had to adapt.”

It was details like this that made John believe that Sherlock was far from the impersonal creature many people seemed to think he was. He doubted the general public could even picture Sherlock twenty years ago learning French to please his grandmother.

“Why did you go to Paris, anyway? Molly said you were at the Royal for a while.”

Sherlock clearly tensed up at that. He chewed on his food and then pushed the container away. “It wasn’t completely by choice.”

John had figured that from the very little Molly had said and it was clearly a very uncomfortable subject, but he decided to explore it just a little further.

“What happened?”

The other’s eyes were glued to his violin case just a few feet away. He seemed to be pondering exactly what to say.

“There was a situation with another student. A conflict of sorts. Things escalated to the point that we couldn’t both stay at the school. I left.”

Rivalries weren’t at all unusual in the music business. People were often very different in different contexts. Musicians were performers and had to attend to many conflicting interests, this wasn’t news. But only rarely people would clash in a way that completely upset the _status quo_ and forced students to be dismissed from schools.

“Alright. You know you can talk about it with me, if you want.”

Sherlock’s small smile was grateful, but didn’t encourage further discussion of the theme at hand.

“Thank you. But I hardly think it will ever be relevant.”

John’s phone buzzed one more time, this time signaling the arrival of an email. Glancing at it, the teacher saw it was labeled as urgent. He frowned and opened it.

 **From:** Molly Hooper (molly.hooper@barts.co.uk)  
**To:** Bart’s Staff Mailing List

 **Subject:** URGENT: Extraordinary Staff Meeting

To all teachers,

I’m sorry for this being so short-notice, but some pressing matters have come to my attention and need to be discussed as soon as possible. In order for that to happen, I’m asking for everyone to be present for the extraordinary staff meeting at 6 PM on Friday. I can’t stress enough the importance of everyone attending.

Please continue with your work.

Yours sincerely,

Molly Hooper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leonard Bernstein was an American pianist and conductor, most famous for composing works like West Side Story.  
> Claudio Abbado, who died in 2014, was an Italian conductor and one of the greats. He was the successor to Herbert von Karajan as the Berlin Philharmonic’s leader, which speaks volumes in itself.  
> Tobias Gregson is a Scotland Yard inspector from some some of ACD’s stories, namely The Adventure of the Red Circle.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello. What's new everyone? This chapter. This chapter is new. Heh.  
> I want to thank the people who have been religiously reading this. I'm writing this for you.  
> As usual, leave kudos/comments and all those lovely things that make my day.  
> Enjoy!

“Molly scheduled an extraordinary meeting. That’s strange.”

Sherlock’s eyes were unfocused, fixed on an uncertain point on the whiteboard, as if staring at another dimension only visible to him and not to common mortals. John’s words brought him back from his personal musings.

“Is it that unheard of?”

“No, but it’s still odd. I can’t remember the last time we had one. There’s the regular staff meeting on Monday, I don’t see what problem can’t wait a couple of days.”

John looked honestly bewildered by the situation, unconsciously rubbing his hand in repeated mechanical circles over his left shoulder.

“Is the school in any financial trouble?” That was the most obvious assumption. Many schools were struggling to keep teachers, pay them fairly and still provide the best pedagogic environment possible. It was certainly no easy task and Bart’s would be in no way immune to it, not if they would keep charging cheap tuition.

“I don’t think so. Why do you ask?” It was like the idea had never even crossed John’s mind, an idea so absurd that wasn’t even unlikely but rather impossible.

“Molly and Mike are the ones who deal with the school’s finances, are they not? An urgent meeting suggests something at least fairly serious has happened. It would be safe to assume the school is having money troubles. Was something like that mentioned during the last meeting?”

John reached for his notebook and leaved through it. “No. We talked about the obligatory pieces for exams, extending the choir practice hours, doing instrument inventory, possible dates for the spring concert… Nothing about money.” There was a tiny confused crease between his eyebrows.

If this was any other person, any other teacher in this school, Sherlock would already have started tearing into the subject, explaining in great detail how any of those themes could easily bring up a discussion about money serious enough to open the school’s books and discover a gaping hole. However, he shoved away his deductive inner voice and stabbed a chopstick through a large chunk of sauce covered pork, mustering a smile.

“Then it can’t be that serious, can it? You’ll find out on Friday.” _Is this how supportive is done?_

Thankfully, it seemed to appease John somewhat. The simmering anxiety on his face eased and his hand fell from his shoulder. “I suppose I will.”

For the next couple of minutes, John gathered the remains of their lunch and threw them on the bin under the desk. Sherlock watched his movements, so controlled, and thought how this man would’ve made an exceptional soldier in another life. John belonged to that rarely encountered kind of people that seemed unlikely in every scenario but you still couldn’t imagine said scenario without them. Like an extremely ordinary person in a crowd, so common you hardly noticed them, but that would change everything by being gone. You wouldn’t know what was different or if there was anything different at all, but things wouldn’t feel quite right.

As Sherlock stood, intending to grab his violin case, he caught a glimpse of the screen on John’s laptop. He recognized Sibelius immediately, but not the displayed score. The harmony was intricate, but not completely perfect, obviously still in the early stages of completion.

“Do you compose?”

The blond turned bright red, the blood rushing quickly to his face and staining his cheeks dark. He oh so casually placed a hand on the computer and slowly closed the lid.

“Uh, yes. Sometimes. It’s a bit of a hobby. Killing time and all that.”

The man was embarrassed. Why? The work was unfinished, yes, but the little that had been displayed was nothing to be ashamed of, clearly a work being carefully constructed. The melody was a little reminiscent of early Mendelssohn, but not enough to be considered of bad taste. 

“What is it?”

“Just a little something for the school’s orchestra.”

 _That’s a lie._ Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. John’s face had twitched just enough to give away the lack of truth of his statement, but had been schooled just in time for the violinist to understand what exactly the truth was. It was exciting. _John Watson, you sneaky bastard._

Sherlock was more than a little curious. He had to get his hands on that computer, but insisting on the subject would likely tip John off and the whole thing would go belly up. Instead, the younger man picked up his belongings and molded his expression into one of casual indifference.

“I’ll leave you to your work, then.”

“You’re practicing downstairs?”

Sherlock nodded. The concert at Blackheath was going to happen in a couple of weeks and some freshening up on his Grieg was quite overdue. Mrs. Hudson certainly wouldn’t mind him playing during the day, but she had Mrs. Turner over and it was less probable for Lestrade to come and bother him at Bart’s.

John grinned. “Maybe I’ll pay you a visit later, then. Just to make sure you don’t hit yourself over the head with your bow or something. Wouldn’t want you to get blood on the stage.”

\- - -

_Holy fuck, that was close._

John sagged back on his chair, eyes still glued to the doorway that Sherlock had crossed a moment ago. The prospect of having people like Molly and Mike seeing his pieces while unfinished was daunting enough, but Sherlock was a whole different kind of terrifying. This was a world class musician, someone who dug into masterpieces for breakfast, a man who filled concert halls and sold CDs like fresh fish and chips. He was famous for bashing Mozart for being, quote, _hysterical and pedestrian_. And yes, John had read enough of Sherlock’s interviews to safely qualify as an internet stalker.

The central matter, though, was John’s insecurity. He knew this, of course, even before Ella the therapist had graciously pointed it out. He’d been confident, once, when he was in his early twenties and his career was shaping up. But having to rebuild one’s life from ruins did funny things to their self-esteem. At least he’d become independent again, not having to rely on his alcoholic sister’s willingness to let him sleep on her couch.

Things were good. Things were better. And then there was Sherlock, with his bloody coat and Chinese food and interesting anecdotes about his conflicts with other musicians. John couldn’t deny he was constantly looking forward to seeing the man again. They didn’t need to go for dinner or huddle together over takeout. John liked being close to him, basking in the strength of his presence and confidence, his exuding brilliance. It was ridiculous, and something a prepubescent girl would say, but no less true because of it.

The teacher rubbed both hands over his face, exhaled between his fingers. _How about starting to behave like a 30 year old man, Johnny? Adults ask other adults out, don’t they? On dates. Wining and dining, that sort of business._ The voice inside his head said, sounding a lot like Harry.

John stood. He had nothing to lose, had he? If Sherlock wasn’t interested, then that would be that and they could carry on as friends without the strange feeling of _something_ he always got around the man. That was a jolly good plan.

He marched into the hallway and to the stairwell, feeling emboldened like he hadn’t since…he couldn’t remember when. However, he’d descended two steps when his mind turned to Molly’s email and he couldn’t quite shake it off like before. John was frozen there for a moment. A looming feeling of dread was coiling in his stomach for no apparent reason.

Suddenly, he turned on his heel and went up the stairs to the second floor instead. The blond stopped in front of the first classroom to the right and peered into it through the door’s glass panel.

Molly was sitting on the long piano stool next to a little girl in pigtails and a salmon dress. Her feet didn’t reach the pedals. They looked like the same person in different points in time, four hands dedicated to slowly playing Old MacDonald Had a Farm.

John knocked, Molly looked over. The music stopped, she bent to say something to her student, who nodded. The piano teacher exited the room and the little girl kept playing, feet kicking under the keyboard.

“Hi, John. Is everything okay?” Molly said, once the door was closed behind her.

“You tell me. I just read your email and it made me feel a little on edge, honestly. Is something going on?”

The conflict on her face was too obvious to ignore. If John didn’t already think there was some kind of trouble brewing, he certainly would now.

“I…It’s complicated, John. But it’s really nothing you should worry about. There’s a little problem, but it’s manageable and I think I may have found a solution. That’s why I scheduled a meeting, to run that by all of you.”

John held up a hand and cocked his head to the side. “So there’s a problem. But it’s solved? How does that qualify as urgent?” It made absolutely no sense and Molly knew it, because she licked her lips twice and inhaled as if steeling herself.

“I have a solution. It will only be solved if all of you approve it. It’s the kind of the decision that I can’t make on my own.”

“Alright. Are you and Mike working on this together?”

“No. I came up with this on my own. We’ll just talk about this on Friday. Really, there’s no need to fret.”

She patted him on the shoulder, his bad, aching, freshly throbbing shoulder. Her smile was sweet, but her eyes were terrified.

“Don’t worry, it’s going to be fine.”

Even though her words were saying everything would be alright, it just planted the seed of suspicion inside John. He very much doubted things were going to be fine.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Wednesday, everyone!  
> Now we get to the moment when we find out what the hell is happening...  
> Leave some kudos and comments and let me know what you're thinking about this. Enjoy.  
> Lots of love.

Friday morning broke with a stream of cold light sneaking through the curtains. Sherlock was curled up on the couch, one long finger jutting out to caress the strings of the violin resting on the floor. It was quiet, no sounds of steps or the clanking of pots and pans to signal Mrs. Hudson was already up. Occasionally there would be the rustle of a passing car, but not much else.

He hadn’t slept that night and the exhaustion was finally catching up with him. Lestrade had come round the previous evening, brandishing an envelope as a peace offering. Said envelope contained tickets for Sherlock’s Blackheath Halls concert, which was very close to being sold out, apparently. 

“I knew you’d never ask, so I took the liberty of requesting tickets from Mrs. Maberley.” He’d said. “Really, your mum called me last week, complaining she hadn’t seen you since Christmas. Take your family to the concert before they declare you missing or something along those lines.”

Sherlock had agreed, begrudgingly, and stabbed a pocketknife through the envelope, fixing it to the mantle next to Billy the skull. After the agent had gone, the violinist had changed into pyjamas and settled on the couch, laptop on his chest. He opened his browser and stared at the Google homepage for a full five minutes. Then, tentatively, and cringing at every letter pressed, he typed Three Continents Ensemble in the search bar. One of the first results was a Youtube video of them playing a Beethoven Trio.

Sherlock watched it on loop for hours. It had been filmed in 2004 and they looked so very young, still fresh faced university students beginning their musical journey. Murray was good on the cello, as was Sholto on the piano, but John was a marvel. His fingering technique needed a bit of work, the fast passages had some imperfections, but there was something special about his playing.

Winds in general weren’t Sherlock’s favourite or his area of expertise. He tended to find them shrill or too heavy at times, but it just made him more aware of excellence when he saw it. John had a way of infusing colour and texture to his phrasing, no two notes the same. Even if he moved very little, unlike other players, his face was still incredibly expressive. There were layers to his performance, like a rose not yet in full bloom, outer petals protecting the still immature heart. 

He listened to it well into dawn. By the time he was finished, he felt like he’d unlocked another level of understanding of the individual John Watson was. He was able to see Sherlock’s passion without being actively shown, which was remarkable, but now it was obvious the reason he did was because he was very much the same. 

_How fascinating._

By midmorning, when Mrs. Hudson made her way into the flat, carrying a plate of bacon and eggs, Sherlock was fast asleep.

\- - -

The tension at Bart’s was palpable the whole day. People barely spoke with each other at the lounge, everyone on edge, grabbing their mugs and fleeing quickly to their own classrooms. One whisper here and there, discomfort everywhere. No one was quite sure what to do and how to behave facing the mystery surrounding that evening’s meeting.

Molly had been conspicuously absent. When she finally appeared, looking slightly distraught and hiding it under a full face of makeup, which was unlike her, John had been sitting alone at the lounge, having a cuppa. She’d darted past the door, heading towards the meeting room. Mike passed by five minutes after her.

“Mike!” John called out.  
The other man slapped on a weary smile. “Hi, mate.”

“What the hell is going on? Everyone is walking on eggshells.”

“To tell you the truth, I don’t really know myself. Not completely, anyway.”

“That’s the problem. No one knows anything and Molly looks like someone told her there’s a Poltergeist haunting her flat.”

Mike slid off his glasses and rubbed his eye. “I know. Look, John, I need to go check on her. I’ll see you at the meeting, yeah?”

“Sure. Don’t let me keep you.”

He rushed off and John went back to his tea, now cooling. If even Mike Stamford, the cheeriest bloke in London, was frazzled, then everyone had the right to be concerned.

\- - -

At 6 PM sharp, the meeting room was full. Very rarely all the teachers would be present at the staff meeting, but today there were people sitting down around the table and people standing against the wall. John was quite convinced half of them were there out of worry and the other half out of morbid curiosity, like people dying to watch a car crash in extremely slow motion.

Molly and Mike were sitting at the front, speaking quickly but quietly. Everyone else was whispering, so it was difficult to overhear anything they were saying. John was sitting right across from Anderson and Sally, who were probably too busy staring at him with sour faces to worry about the reason for this gathering.

Mike stood and raised his arms. His usually playful voice turned into his teacher voice.

“Okay, people, quiet down, please! Quiet down!”

It took a minute, but all the teachers eventually went silent. The bassoon teacher took a seat and Molly shifted in hers, leaning forward to rest her elbows on the table.

“Hi, everyone. I know you’re all worried so I’m not going to beat around the bush.” Her voice shook a little and she look no less terrified than when John had confronted her. “Like we agreed on Monday, I did inventory. The result was very depressing. Most of our instruments are in horrible conditions and I’ve had calls from parents telling me their children have been handed damaged violins, flutes and so on. With Mike’s help, I’ve estimated how much it’d cost to replace our stock. It’s thousands of pounds and we don’t have that kind of money on demand.”

_Sherlock was right._ John thought, really not that surprised. It was to be expected that instruments as used as theirs, that passed through so many hands over the years - and children’s hands no less - would need repairs and, eventually, even replacing. But buying instruments this massively was an extremely heavy charge.

“We’ll just stop renting, then. Let the parents buy the instruments.” Dimmock, one of the guitar teachers, spoke up from the corner.

Molly shook her head. “Parents don’t want that kind of commitment. Would you feel comfortable spending hundreds of pounds on something your kid may tire of in a couple of years? Of course not. Specially not if you’re on a budget. If we stop renting, we’re going to lose many students, and fast.”

“Then what are we going to do? If any of us could afford it, we’d probably not be sitting here in the first place.” Sally had gone from looking sour to looking extremely annoyed. It wasn’t too much of a different look on her.

“I’m not asking you for the money. I’m here to tell you I’ve found a potential solution.” Molly swallowed and looked at the very back of the room, above everyone’s heads. She paled a little, but her face didn’t change.

John followed her line of sight. There was a man in the doorway. He was short and he’d be unassuming if it wasn’t for the expensive navy suit and tie he was wearing. There was a slick but still unpleasant air to him specific to those people who looked like they couldn’t be trusted.

“Jim, come in.”

When the man smiled, a little bit too sweetly, John had the overwhelming urge to punch him in the mouth. As the newcomer navigated the crowd of teachers to the front of the room, Molly introduced him.

“This is James Moriarty, I’m sure many of you have heard about him. I used to be his accompanist.” Most people had heard about him. He was as famous as Sherlock in the music business. He’d been an accomplished violinist until he founded his own record company, _House of M_. “Jim approached me last year offering to help the school financially but at the time it wasn’t necessary. Now it is.”

“Not many people just give out money. What do you want in return?” Anderson piped up, suspicious of the whole thing by nature.

“It’s very simple, my darlings.” The moment he opened his mouth and spoke, John knew this man was the smarmiest being to ever walk the Earth. “I’ll give you all the funds you need in exchange for something very small. Artistic direction of the school.”

A beat of shocked silence followed. This couldn’t be real, could it? John fisted his hand under the table, keeping himself from shaking with rage. It was ridiculous, it was absolutely and utterly ridiculous. Moriarty, who had presumedly never set foot in Bart’s before, couldn’t waltz in now and demand control like a tyrant wanting a new toy at all cost. 

Sally was the first to recover. “Artistic direction? Are you joking? I refuse to be bossed around by a stranger.” John was happy to see her turn her vitriol towards someone who deserved to be detested, for once.

He seemed unfazed by it. “Take it or leave it. Let me remind you that I don’t need you, you need me. I promise to be extremely generous.”

“You don’t need to make a decision now.” Molly added, feeling the growing sense of unease. “I’ve persuaded Jim to let us think about this over the weekend. We’ll take a vote on Monday.”

Her seemingly reassuring tone was still washed in uncertainty and John couldn’t understand it. Why was Molly so terrified of this man? He looked like a strong gust of wind would knock him over. His eyes were odd, though, huge doe eyes so dark people could probably see their own reflection in them.

“What if someone else could muster up the money?” The blond said it but only realised it had exited his mouth after a few seconds. He didn’t regret it one bit. 

Molly sighed. “John, I really don’t see that happening.”

“Quite, Mr. Watson. Your jumper doesn’t really shout music mogul.” Jim, of course, didn’t resist that little jab at John, smiling a little too happily. He looked like a kid hiding giggles behind hands sticky with sweets.

“Well, Mr. Moriarty, I’m sorry if I’m not dying to submit to your will. While I do understand the importance of getting these funds, we shouldn’t have to abdicate control over our school for money. That’s why I’m saying that I’m going to do anything to get them without having to take one pence from you.”

“Very harsh for someone who is being offered an escape.”

“An escape with trap written all over it is not much of an escape.”

Those dark predatory eyes narrowed just the tiniest fraction, enough for John to know the arrow had hit its target.

“Well, John, if you think you can get the money we need, we’ll of course consider your option too.” The hope in Molly’s voice was devastating.

Sally looked impressed by John’s ability to hold his ground. “What are you suggesting, then?” She asked, openly curious, while Anderson gawked at her.

“I don’t know. But I’m sure as hell going to find a solution.”

“Promises, promises. How pathetic.” Jim rolled his eyes and waved a hand in dismissal. He seemed back to his confident self. “You have one concrete, tangible proposal and one idiot spitting gibberish.”

Sarah’s voice sounded for the first time from her place beside the blond. “Well, I’m willing to see what John comes up with. For the sake of justice and democracy, we should give him a chance.”

“I’m with Sarah on this one.” Mike commented, and there was a general murmur of assent across the room.

Molly held up her hands. “Alright. We’ll meet again on Monday to decide, then. Have a good weekend, everyone, and consider this carefully, please. There’s more at stake than the school. The kids are all that matters.”

People were reluctant to leave the room, lingering behind with cursory glances at Molly and Jim. The man was standing by the window, smoothing down the front of his jacket with a small smile. As John was standing up and pulling on his jacket, too angry to speak to anyone. Jim chose that precise moment to look over and direct a final quip at him.

“I can’t wait to hear what that pretty blond head can come up with. It better be good, Johnny boy.”

“You can bet your fucking entitled arse it will be.” John snarled, zipping up his jacket with a little too much strength than necessary before leaving the room.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let’s celebrate Friday, the official best day of the week, with the longest chapter so far!  
> Leave kudos and comments, enjoy the chapter and have a lovely weekend, my lovelies.  
> New chapter on Monday.

221B Baker Street, that’s what Mike had said. John didn’t even know why he was going there, of all places, Sherlock would probably be busy, but he couldn’t stop himself even if he wanted to. He was angry, on edge, starving and extremely annoyed. That whole meeting had been ridiculous. Why was Molly even considering such extreme measures? She didn’t think that was the only thing that could be done, surely. However, thinking back to her anxious face, she probably did.

John closed his eyes, leaned his head against the cool cab window, spattered with minute specks of water. That whole deal was rotten. A poisoned apple, shiny but lethal, about to be bitten into. There were many men like Jim Moriarty, who’d do anything for control, and John certainly wasn’t going to play along with tyranny. That offer itself showed what kind of man he was, and it wasn’t good.

And now he had to come up with a plan good enough to persuade the other teachers to reject Moriarty’s offer. He’d only need to have the majority, thankfully, but it was still a herculean task. Moriarty would undoubtedly bend over backwards to get what he wanted and John was pretty sure he wasn’t above taking some less than savoury measures.

_Maybe I can… No, I have nothing. Shit._

When he finally arrived to 221B, his anxiety about the situation at Bart’s was being replaced by his anxiety of visiting Sherlock with no warning whatsoever. However, the situation was dire and if someone’s mind could come up with some supreme solution for the problem they were facing, it would be Sherlock’s.

John walked up to the door, black with a brass knocker. The curtains lining the windows just above were unmoving, but there was a soft orange light glowing somewhere inside. He wondered what Sherlock’s flat would be like, spartan minimalism or overwhelming chaos? Maybe somewhere in between. John knocked, three concise raps on the wood, and waited. Nothing could be heard on the other side, no steps, the banging of doors, the slide of carpets under hurried feet. After a moment, he knocked again, this time with a little more firmness. He perked up when he heard shuffling inside, followed by the turn of a lock.

The door opened and he was faced by a small old lady, wearing a gentle smile and a beige blouse on top of a grey skirt. Her eyes were much younger than the rest of her face, alight with something like wicked curiosity.

“Good evening.” She said, but it felt more like a question than a greeting.

“Hello, ma’am. I’m looking for Sherlock Holmes. Do I have the wrong address?”

“Sherlock? Oh, no, you’re in the right place.” The name made her relax somewhat, but she still didn’t move from her place blocking the door.

“Thank you. I’m John Watson, I teach at St. Bart’s. I’m sorry for popping in like this, but Mike said it’d be alright.”

At the mention of Mike, the woman beamed and stepped to the side, motioning for John to enter. He complied and tried to be subtle looking around as she closed the door.

“Of course it’s alright, dear. I’m Martha Hudson, Sherlock’s landlady.” They shook hands and John was surprised by her strong unyielding grip, not the frail thing he’d been expecting. “He was sleeping when I checked on him a couple of hours ago, but just go right upstairs.”

“I probably shouldn’t bother him, then.”

Mrs. Hudson laughed a little, swatting playfully at his jacket clad arm. “Don’t be silly. He’s probably already up, at least I’ve heard him move about.”

“Still, I’m not sure. He’s not expecting me and I wouldn’t want to invade, specially if he’s resting.”

She looked at him in very obvious appraisal and John had to will himself not to squirm under her heavy scrutiny. This woman could be older and small, but she was easily one of the most intimidating people John had ever met, even if he couldn’t really pinpoint why.

“You said you teach at Bart’s?” Mrs. Hudson asked.

John was startled by the question, but nodded easily and smiled. “Yeah. Mostly musical theory, some analysis to the older kids.”

They were both standing in the sparsely lit entrance and it started feeling as if the walls were closing in on them. John had no doubt he was going through some strange process of approval. Odd for a landlady to be so motherly towards her tenant, so there had to be some history there John had yet to be privy to.

But all of a sudden the choking moment had passed and she was smiling and patting his chest. “Go upstairs, the door will be open.”

Mrs. Hudson padded away presumably towards her own flat. “Oh, and if you can make him eat something, that would be great. Thank you, dear. Nighty-night.” She said, almost obscured be the closing door. It clicked shut and John was very much alone again, inside an unknown building.

According to her instructions, he climbed the stairs slowly, hearing them crack and sigh with his movement. He was half expecting to be greeted by smooth violin notes, but nothing of the sort happened. When he reached the landing, the only clue someone was indeed in the flat was the warm glow seeping from under the door. Just as John’s hand was about to knock, Sherlock’s voice sounded from inside.

“Come in, John.”

Anyone else would be spooked and running down the stairs. Not John Watson. He snorted in amusement and opened the door.

The space revealed was a musician’s lair if John had ever seen one. It was illuminated in an almost lewd way, one single floor lamp dispersing the shadows hugging damask wallpaper and mismatch furniture, haphazardly piled sheet music and towers of CDs, carpet worn by years of hovering feet. A violin case, black and sombre on the outside, was open on the table between the two tall windows to reveal a lush velvet lining, dark red, like thick deoxygenated blood or exquisite port wine poured from a dusty bottle.

Sherlock himself was sitting on a modern armchair just under the lamp, cross-legged in a way his knees were resting against the arms of the chair, bare feet peeking from under the blue silk dressing gown draped around him. His violin was snugly resting on the space between his legs and he looked concentrated, nimble fingers expertly substituting a broken string for a brand new one.

It should feel strange, being so immerse in someone’s privacy. Sherlock was at his flat, in his pyjamas, tending to his most valuable possession. He wasn’t wearing any shoes, which only added to the vulnerability of the whole scene. But John didn’t feel awkward. It was like returning to a place of comfort, somewhere where you’d lived before, maybe in another time and place. The teacher stepped closer, shedding his jacket to adjust to the toasty temperature, so different from the biting wind outside.

“How did you know it was me?”

Sherlock smiled as the new string wrapped tightly around its tuning peg. “Your gait is very characteristic. There’s a very distinct rhythmical sequence to it.” The younger man motioned to the empty armchair on the other side of the fireplace. “Please, sit down.”

John took the offered seat and relaxed into its welcoming hug. They sat in silence while Sherlock finished his work. The violinist didn’t ask why he was there or how he knew his exact address. There was no need for that, John knew it. He could probably read it from the scruff on his shoe or the rain drying on his hair.

Sherlock stood for a moment to place his violin in its case but quickly returned to his place with a sigh, hands steepling under his nose, eyes calm but still chillingly blue.

“So, the meeting.”

The simple prompt rekindled John’s rage at the whole affair. He groaned and rubbed both hands over his face. “It was ridiculous. You were right. It was all about how the school needed money for new instruments. Apparently the whole stock is in bad conditions. Why they didn’t see this before is beyond me, but this is the current situation.”

“Bart’s is a small school.” Sherlock pointed out. “The funding is feeble, at best.”

“That’s the problem. We can’t afford going on a huge instrument binge. Even if we only started with a partial replacement, it’s still very expensive.”

“Sponsors are an option.”

John let out a dry chuckle. “In this economy? As you said, Bart’s is small. It was hard enough getting someone to help us buy pianos for the school three years ago. Getting enough companies to just hand over dozens of instruments is impossible. Even if we could get one sponsor, it’d still require a hefty investment.”

Both of them considered this for a long silent moment, but then Sherlock leaned forward, squinting slightly. “But this is not all that’s bothering you. Something else happened.”

“Yes.” John licked his lips nervously. The mere thought of that slimy man was giving him a migraine. “Molly thought it would be a great idea to shut everyone out and come up with a plan all on her own. Well, not all on her own.”

The other’s face twitched just a little in interest. “She contacted someone?”

John dipped his head in affirmation. “Yes. James Moriarty, that guy from _House of M_. God, he’s so smarmy, I hated him on the spot.”

But Sherlock’s eyes seemed to have gone to that far away place again, inaccessible to all others. This time, however, the violinist’s mouth was gaping a bit and his pinky was trembling just slightly. He stood abruptly and marched to the window, standing between the curtains like a statue, dressing gown pulled tightly around his body. His shoulders were so tense John could see the muscle coiled tight under the thin fabric of his clothes.

Carefully, the blond hoisted himself to his feet and padded towards his friend. He placed a gentle hand on his bicep. “Sherlock?”

It was dark outside, so John could see Sherlock’s reflection on the windowpane, lips moving on the midst of an indescribable expression. His voice was low, but steady.

“When I was accepted at the Royal with a full scholarship, I was already a fairly recognised name in the business. I was doing concerts for important festivals and winning big competitions. Not that I cared much about that, I just wanted to play, challenge myself to be better, greater.

“My musical studies until then had happened mostly from home with private tutors. I’d never been in an environment like that before, so I wasn’t expecting the choking competition between my colleagues. Few people were truly genuine and my social skill were, as they’ve always been, very flawed, so you can imagine how well I fitted - not very well at all. The start of the year was rocky, but I eventually found a way to make myself invisible. I met Molly not long after. She was shy and still tackling her musical potential. I was resistant to friendships, but she kept sitting beside me, talking to me, taking an interest in who I was, so I caved.

“At the time, she was accompanying a second year violin student and she introduced us. He was a sort of prodigy himself, so Molly thought we’d hit it off. Far from it. James Moriarty was the most despicable human I’d ever encountered. He saw me as a threat, an obstacle to be destroyed, not that it saw it immediately. At first, he was charming, even intriguing. But I soon realised there was something else lurking under the surface.

“At one point, one of our teachers was organising a concert for young talents. Everyone knew agents would be attending the concert, recording labels representatives, people from important orchestras. He was very confident he’d be selected. Too confident. In the end, I ended up being chosen instead of him. The blow to his ego was…unbearable.

“I could see he had a lot of trouble being around me and had already started rumors about my reputation, but I dutifully ignored it, determined not to play his game. I think my disdain for him was the final straw. Nearing the end of the school year, we were both playing in the orchestra and preparing for the final concert. One day, during a break from rehearsal, someone found his violin irreparably damaged in the bathrooms. Jim accused me of doing it out of jealousy and the teachers didn’t have any reason to doubt him. He was there longer than me, with a stellar record, and I was a misfit with little friends. I was allowed to finish the year and then politely invited to leave the school. That’s the reason I went to Paris.”

John now understood why Molly had seemed so reluctant to tell him about Sherlock leaving the Royal and why she seemed so spooked in Jim’s presence. She knew what he was capable of, she most certainly knew more than that single incident. In her despair to do the right thing and save the school she’d asked an awful but powerful man for help.

“He smashed his own violin.” John said, as the realization hit him like a ton of bricks and that wide fake smile swam in front of his eyes, a dark hostile Cheshire cat. 

“Yes.”

“My God, that’s mental.” That story had made him feel hollow but heavy, like his organs had been traded for a strange sort of dark matter threatening to suck him inwards into nothingness. John instinctively leaned closer, cheek brushing over the sharp jut of bone on Sherlock’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for. It benefitted my career immensely. I thrived in Paris.”

“The good things that happen don’t eclipse the bad, Sherlock.”

The hand that had been clutching the dressing gown eased and travelled up before closing around John’s, squeezing briefly.

“Maybe they do.”

\- - -

John had indeed succeeded in getting Sherlock to eat some dinner. It took incredible coaxing and some bribing, but it happened eventually. After their unexpected heart to heart, they’d sat at the kitchen table and shared the leftovers of the meatloaf Mrs. Hudson had made the previous day.

It was nice, even if Sherlock was unusually quiet and John had done most of the talking. The blond knew Sherlock was thinking about Bart’s situation and how to keep Jim Moriarty away from it, but his silence betrayed his lack of ideas. If Sherlock didn’t know what to do, most likely no one else would.

That night, John lay in bed unable to sleep. The tension had drained out of his body and he was left with a feeling of powerlessness and an exhaustion so deep it felt like his bones were dry and sunken in. He turned on his belly, exhaling a long tired breath into the pillow, brushing both hands over the empty expanse of bed beside him, sheets cold and idle. He could still feel the ghost of Sherlock’s body heat from when they’d swayed towards each other at the window, the warm grip of Sherlock’s hand.

How had John’s life become so tangled in so little time? It went from being fine, just fine, to being so much better and so much worse at the same time, like a rope being stretched in two different directions, about to break in the middle.

 _What a pile of shit._ He thought, unseeing eyes fixed on the bookcase beside his closet. His gaze travelled up, over his sparse amount of books, unused sheet music, some Bond DVDs and music CDs, up to the very top where a black case was resting, solitary, untouched in years.

_Oh._

A spark of fire ignited inside him. Right then, he knew what to do.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, internet. We have a short chapter today for your enjoyment. I know it comes a little late, but I'm on holiday with my family and things get a little crazy.  
> As always, any mistake is my fault entirely and your kudos and comments make me very happy.

Sunday saw Sherlock at an upscale café with white tablecloths and fresh flowers in crafted glass vases, polished silverware and sculpted, fragile looking tea cups with gold rims. Women in structured skirts and cashmere jumpers were eating yogurt and fruit concoctions, art students in black clothes and horn-rimmed glasses looking over the food selection with a critical eye, wealthy families reunited hiding giggles behind coffee cups and juice glasses. He usually hated this kind of place, just pretentious enough for people to consider it fashionable and spend ridiculous fortunes on Eggs Benedict and French Toast, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

Suffering through brunch with his nemesis was a desperate measure. The man sitting across from him looked as unruffled and aloof as usual, eating his coffee cake as primly as possible. Unlike him, Sherlock had yet to touch his eggs.

“Sherlock, do stop glaring at your food like it’s mortally offending you.” Mycroft said, and took a sip from his Earl Grey.

“I apologize if I’m not shoving cake into my mouth like a man who hasn’t seen food in a century.”

The thing about Mycroft Holmes was that he never failed to look unimpressed. His face could be absolutely blank, but then his eyebrow would rise or a corner of a mouth move and you’d know deep in your bones that your existence wouldn’t move him in the least. It was a talent on its own.

He extracted his pocket watch from his waistcoat - really, who still carried a pocket watch in that day and age - and looked pointedly at its dial. It was a clear indication of _don’t waste my time_.

Asking his older brother for help was something that Sherlock loathed to do, mostly out of pride. Growing up, Mycroft had always kept a close eye on him, and during his rebellious days the younger Holmes had found it intrusive, a challenge to his independence. While their parents didn’t have a favourite child, having an older brother as successful and fond of rules as Mycroft always pressured someone as insubordinate as Sherlock used to be. The wounds generated by endless quarrels back then had left their marks, as had Mycroft’s apparent inability to just leave him be even now. However, Sherlock could suppress his ego when something more important than pride was at stake.

“I assume you know what has been happening at St. Bart’s.” The younger Holmes said, folding his hands coolly on the table.

Mycroft held his brother’s gaze, but his only response was raising the porcelain cup to his mouth. Sherlock took it as the assent that it was.

“I need to know what Moriarty is planning.”

“What makes you think I know anything about it?” His tone was amused, but the quirking of his lips betrayed the hidden meaning behind his words.

“Big brother always knows.”

The older man looked smug, brushing invisible crumbs from his red tie. He wiped his mouth with the napkin and set it on the table, methodically folded in half. While intensely private, Mycroft was one of the most powerful men behind the scenes in the classical music world. He was CEO of _Diogenes_ , one of the oldest labels still in business. No one quite knew how he’d climbed the corporate ladder as fast as he had, becoming massively influential in a short stretch of time, but it had happened and there wasn’t a musician alive that wanted to infuriate Mycroft Holmes. Naturally, _House of M_ was a pebble in his shoe.

“He’s expanding.” Mycroft’s voice lowered to a subtle, mechanical murmur, practiced over years of exploring corridors where nothing could be said loudly, lest someone be listening just around the corner. “It seems _House of M_ has stopped being sufficient amusement. His logic is quite interesting. What has his career been so far? Professional violinist, music entrepreneur, recording label mogul. He has fingers in every pie. Except for one.”

“Music schools.” The things that had made little sense when John had visited him were finally slotting into place.

“Precisely, brother mine. It has come to my attention that _House of M_ is about to publish a violin method book. And what better place to force his method upon unsuspecting children than in a school?”

Sherlock sat back. How could he not have seen? “And Bart’s is the ideal place. It’s small enough that it won’t be scandalous for him to take charge but with considerable merit and numerous cases of successful students.”

Mycroft nodded as he placed his fork and knife side by side on the empty plate. “And the fact that he gets to annoy us in the process is an added bonus. He wants to build a fabric of violin playing machines and then presumably sign them exclusively to his company. The fact that Bart’s teaches a large range of instruments just allows him to broaden his horizons with time. On a business perspective, it’s a brilliant strategy. But I’m afraid the consequences will be quite destructive.”

“In ten years he’d have a monopoly.”

“Quite.” The older man’s mouth was set in a grim line. “We can’t let that happen.”

\- - -

_”You’ve reached Sherlock Holmes. I’m either too busy or don’t want to talk to you. If it’s a matter of life and death - which I very much doubt it is - leave a message. Goodbye.”_

“Wow, that’s a pretty terrifying message right there. Sherlock, hi, it’s John. Watson. I don’t know if this qualifies as a matter of life and death, because your standards are pretty high, but I really need to talk to you about the thing we discussed Friday night. Just…call me back. Please. I think I may have an idea.”

\- - -

**Incoming call: John Watson**

_”Hello?”_

_“Mike, hi.”_

_“Oh, hello. Is everything okay? You don’t usually call.”_

_“Yes, just fine. I was thinking about the meeting on Monday.”_

_“Don’t even mention it, the anxiety is doing my nervous system no favours. Or my waistline, because I’ve been eating like a pig.”_

_“Maybe I can do something to ease your nerves.”_

_“John. I’m married.”_

_“What? No! My God, shut up!”_

_“Joking. I know you like them tall, dark and brooding.”_

_“I’m going to actively ignore that in favour of having a serious conversation about the school.”_

_“Sorry, sorry. My kid is refusing to go to bed and I can’t listen to Let It Go anymore. Go ahead.”_

_“Alright. So, I was thinking we need to get that money.”_

_“Yes.”_

_“Without involving Moriarty.”_

_“Yup.”_

_“And getting the school some good publicity in the process.”_

_“John, the suspense is killing me.”_

_“…I’m going to auction off my clarinet.” ___


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's what I have learned while working on his chapter: do not write at hotel bars, it's very distracting.  
> A huge thank you to everyone who's been supporting me this far. My prevision from the outline I made for this story is that it'll have 16 chapters in total, but no promises because I'm a pro at getting carried away with things. Yeah.  
> I hope you like this chapter. Leave comments and kudos if you do. :)

There was an almost indistinct stain on the sofa where Harry had once spilt a very dubious cocktail during a night when John had been too antsy to stay alone and she’d been lonely and starved for attention. They’d watched old Peep Show episodes in silence, bleary eyed, breathing the same stale air, draped over opposite ends of the couch and leaning away from each other. John hadn’t been living in the flat for longer than one month, so the space was considerably bare, like an empty eggshell. Boxes still crowded in corners and the tv, one of those old chunky models in a boring rat grey, was resting on the floor, cables snaking messily towards the wall.

While John had lazily nursed his beer, too tired to even consider getting drunk, Harry inhaled her liquor like a dry sponge. At 2 AM, she’d cried a little, tried to call her ex-girlfriend and proceeded to mix colourful liquids from strange bottles. Spilling them on John’s furniture, too intoxicated to even move from the wet spot, was the added bonus.

Sherlock’s feet were resting on the resulting stain, long in his pricey leather shoes. He’d shown up at John’s flat after dinner and dropped himself on the sofa unceremoniously without so much as a hello. The older man had shrugged it off and continued his routine, finishing lesson plans on his laptop as Sherlock read his _Diapason_ magazine, neck bent in an impossible arch over the arm of the couch. John hadn’t been expecting him, specially since the violinist had never returned his call, but having him there was good, bathing in that mellow haze of pleasant company.

After finishing his work, John watched him for a moment over the lid of his laptop. That throat was a thing of beauty, pale and delicate but still strong, the sternocleidomastoid muscle taut and drawing the V in which his Adam’s apple rolled smoothly under the skin. A soft brownish mark was visible just under his jaw from the friction of the violin against his skin.

When John returned his gaze to Sherlock’s face, the younger man was staring intently at him. His eyes were surprisingly verdigris in the fluorescent light. 

“John.” It was the first time either of them had spoken, and the tone was pliable and hushed. The older man was sure that a name that common had never been said in such a way, with the ever present pinch of teasing.

“I’m ogling, I know. Sorry.”

Sherlock rolled to his side and stretched out slightly, the open collar of his shirt revealing a tantalizing peek of collarbone. “Were you? I hadn’t noticed.”

The teacher had become gradually aware of his own response to Sherlock’s body. While his initial interest had mainly been due to the man’s brilliance, he currently couldn’t deny the physical pull that drew them closer, London as a great magnetic field winding their lives uncontrollably.

“Yes, you had.”

“Yes, I had.” 

He had the natural sensuality of a puma, sliding his legs so that his feet would rest on the ground and standing up in one fluid movement. It was very alluring, the motion of a man with a painful control of his gestures, like a dancer.

Under John’s watch, he took a tour of the small living room and kitchen, pausing in front of the dining table where the case previously resting on John’s shelf was set, newly dusted. Sherlock looked at it, intrigued.

“Your clarinet.” He reached out and opened it.

Inside the kit, in dark blue faux fur, was nestled a lovely Buffet clarinet, all polished blackwood and silver plated keywork. While not the most expensive clarinet that money could buy, it was still fairly expensive and a perfect fit for a professional. Sherlock couldn’t tell if it was the same instrument John had played in the videos he’d seen, but that was the most likely scenario, since it obviously wasn’t brand new.

“It’s beautifully kept.” He said, meaning it completely. A musician who took care of his instrument was like a good parent, and it was admirable.

John approached silently, socked feet quiet on the carpeted floor. “I hadn’t touched it in a very long time. Had a friend take a look on Saturday just to make sure it was still in top shape.”

For a short astonishing moment, the violinist was puzzled. However, there was only one reason a musician in possession of a quality instrument would take it for a check-up when it hadn’t been played or even moved in years.

“You can’t sell your clarinet.”

“Why not?” John cocked his head to the side in the now familiar way that reflected his confusion.

“John, I know from experience how territorial musicians are about their instruments.”

“Well, I don’t need it anymore, do I? It was collecting dust on a shelf. Someone may find better use for it, like it deserves. A clarinet like this…it needs to be played or at least cherished.”

John knew this had to resonate with Sherlock in some way. During their meal at Angelo’s, the younger man had told him about finding his Stradivarius in an antique shop in London, with no strings and chipped parts, in dire need of restoration. Even though Sherlock was often considered troublesome, no one could accuse him of lack of respect for the art of classical music or for the instrument itself.

“I’ve heard you play, I know how much this means to you.” He admitted, watching as John’s face opened in honest wonder.

“You’ve heard me play?”

A nod was plenty confirmation. They were standing close together, but not close enough to touch, when the teacher reacher out and delicately brushed the pads of his fingers over the metal keys, as lovingly as one would caress a child’s cheek or the nubs of a lover’s spine. As he spoke, John’s voice was soft.

“Look, I don’t expect you to understand. Very few people do. I was ashamed of myself and of my broken career for a long time. This clarinet symbolized that, so I didn’t touch it. I couldn’t. My therapist always said I should, to face my demons. I knew that the clarinet was in no way to blame for the accident, but I couldn’t deal with the idea of trying to play and failing because I wasn’t what I used to be.”

“And now?” Sherlock was almost afraid to ask, terrified to stumble upon some dark corner of John’s mind, a sombre facet of the simple looking man.

“I’m at peace with it. I know that old times were good, but they’re not coming back.There are other great things in life.” The symphony, that even during the turbulence of his recent professional life was shaping up nicely, feeding heavily on the time spent around Sherlock and his feverish way of existing. 

“I wouldn’t know how to move on this easily if I couldn’t play.”

“It wasn’t easy at all, but what other choice do I have? Drown in misery and drink myself into an early grave like most of my family? Hell, I like to think I’m more persistent than that.” Letting out a dry chuckle, John withdrew his hand from the instrument. “I can’t play this clarinet, but someone else can. And if I sell it for a good sum of money, it’ll help Bart’s. I just need help organizing an auction.”

“You keep surprising me, John Watson. It’s quite befuddling.”

The blond looked up, irises dark and deep but still unmistakably indigo blue. The combination of improbable events that had to happen for this man to be so interesting and still be standing in that dreary kitchen was marvelously unlikely, but chance had intervened. How unexpected.

In that too blunt glow from the fluorescent lightbulbs, so harsh and raw, they kissed. John knew it was going to happen even before any of them moved. He couldn’t pinpoint why. Maybe a change in temperature, in the air. Maybe because they were breathing the same carbon dioxide. 

It was as easy as slipping into a pair of old, worn jeans, swaying towards the same spot between their bodies. Sherlock marveled at how this should be impossible. If there are infinite points in the space between point A and point B, it should be unmanageable to cross that distance. It was equally unimaginable for Sherlock Holmes to be a lonely man one day and then someone else entirely the other. He closed his eyes. Forgot himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Diapason is a real classical music magazine published in french.  
> John’s clarinet is a Buffet, which would be worth around 4 thousand pounds in the model I had envisioned.


End file.
